Every Breath You Take
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: 1983? Why did it have to be 1983? Dean, Clint and Sam are on the trail of a monster with a taste for brains and, as usual, strange things are happening including a little time travel back to the land of sequined gloves, hair scrunchies and big hair bands. This is the third in the Hunterhawk trilogy, a continuation of the first two stories. Lots of guest appearances.
1. Chapter 1

The British Museum was crowded with a Saturday afternoon mixed crowd of tourists, families, and serious historians. Groups met in the marble rotunda, pockets of teenagers roving down the stairs to the restrooms, long line for the café snaking along the East wall. The gift shop was doing a brisk business selling scarves and silver pins, postcards and books. The heaviest traffic flowed into the east gallery, packed twelve deep around the Rosetta Stone, cell phones to their ears, listening to John Cleese narrate the tour's most popular stop. From there people tapered off, heading for the Sutton Hoo room or the Elgin marbles.

He walked through the crowds and people parted instinctively before his prowling steps, moving out of his way. As if he was wearing an invisibility cloak, no one noticed him – handsome, tall, curly brown hair, cerulean blue eyes, body of an underwear model clothed in jeans and a faded Queen t-shirt – their eyes sliding right past him as they jostled for a place to stop and look at the exhibits. Detouring, he stopped to gaze at the marble reliefs from a Greek temple, a smile on his face as he examined them; he reached out a hand and touched the cool stone, tracing the outline of a figure. No alarms went off, no guards raced forward, no response at all. With a chuckle, he continued on his errand, stepping through a door marked off limits and down a concrete set of stairs; no longer in the public area, the lustrous décor gave way to functionality. Small offices, hermetically sealed preservation rooms, and cataloguing stations filled the hall, but down stairs he went again, to the very bowels of one of the largest museums in the world, into an open space with tall metal shelves, crates and boxes stacked to the ceiling, row upon row of treasures stored away. He knew where he was going – he always did – and soon he turned down the right aisle, rolled a large metal ladder into place and climbed up to the wooden box in question. There was a time when he would have snapped his fingers and been done with it, but power was in scarce supply now, a rapidly dwindling amount shared among too many, and he had every intention of being surviving this new battle, for that's what it was regardless of what his lazy siblings thought.

Locks meant nothing to him; the box lid opened smoothly despite its age and, nestled in the protective packing straw, he saw his quarry. Slim and supple, the bow was well-preserved, the wood oiled and still intact; he wasn't surprised that the weapon of a goddess would look as new as the day it was made thousands of years later. What was unusual was dead feel to the weight of the short bow as he picked it up, no aura of power or echo of previous owners. With a muttered curse, he dropped the inert item back into the box and jumped down, temper flaring. Storming out of the Museum, he turned left and strode down the street, crossing Bloomsbury Square, scattering pigeons as he walked. He was too late. Someone had already been there and replaced Artemis' bow with a fake.

"I deserve a beer and a cheeseburger," Dean Winchester groused to his brother as they settled into a table near the bar. "Crawling through a spider-infested, rat-trap tunnel was so not on my list of things to do today."

"Better than getting fileted by the ghost of a jockey bent on revenge," Sam argued back, taking the plastic menus out of metal holder and handing one to Dean.

"Dude, I wish I had pictures of that little guy going after you. Munchkin vs. Goliath. Get a million hits on YouTube," Dean was grinning; in the end, they'd both gotten out with only minor scratches and a few bruises, and that was a happy ending to any case. Salt-n-burned bones, no major injuries. A win all around.

"You wouldn't know how to upload a video, Dean." It wasn't really an argument as much as the way the two brothers communicated, ribbing each other in the good times and the bad. "Porn is about all you can manage."

"Um, can I get you guys something to drink while you study the menu?" The waiter was in his early twenties, probably a grad student at the University of Kentucky just down the street. He must have caught Sam's last statement because he was trying hard not to laugh. "We've got a great selection on beers on tap."

"I'll have a Guinness Extra Stout." Dean ordered. "How's the Guido' Round?"

"Messy but good. If you want a burger, the classic O'Round is a ¼ pound of ground sirloin. Best in the Bluegrass."

"Let's do it. Medium rare." Dean dropped his menu and stared at Sam. "Well?"

"I'll have the Vegwich and a Black Lager." Leave it to Sam to walk into an Irish pub and order rabbit food. The waiter nodded at them and left to get their drinks.

"How about we take a vacation?" Dean settled back in his chair, draping an arm over the back and surveying the room. "We've done back-to-back cases for the last three months and we deserve some R & R. We can be in Cleveland by tomorrow morning. Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame."

"So, what's good? They got a cheeseburger?" Tony Stark pulled up an empty chair, flipped it around and straddled it; he grabbed a menu, waving in the general direction of the bar for the waiter after dropping his backpack on the floor.

"Just make yourself at home." Dean scooted his chair over to make room as the waiter returned with their beers.

"You have Glenmorangie? Bring the bottle and three glasses," Tony ordered. "And I'll have an O'Round, rare."

"So, how are my two favorite male model crash test dummies?" Tony toed the pack further under the table and took the bottle the waiter, who had obviously recognized the billionaire, brought quickly. "I saw the news of your handiwork this morning; desecrated graves and burned bones scream Winchester party time."

"And you just happened to walk into the bar we're sitting in?" Dean kind of liked Stark, in a strange sort of 'he's as annoying as Gabriel but might be useful' way. The fact that SHIELD, and it seemed the Avengers too, knew far too much about their lives still pissed Dean off, but Stark was more likely to use the information to annoy them.

"Let's see, cheap motel, black sexy muscle car, good burgers … not that difficult when you've got a supercomputer that taps into the street cams." Tony didn't sip, he took a good drink of his whiskey; Dean worked on his beer.

"Your need for greasy food** is** well known," Sam offered, grinning; Dean kicked him under the table, hard.

"Indeed," Tony laughed. "Love the food blog, BTW. Next time you're in New York, Donovan's. I'd like to see you tackle their cheeseburger. Speaking of which, when was Clint's last entry?"

Say what you will about Tony Stark, he could turn from joking to dead serious on a dime. Dean didn't have time to answer as the waiter brought their burgers, fries gleaming with hot oil straight from the fryer. Guess being a famous superhero meant better service. The young man sat their plates down – Tony rolled his eyes at Sam's vegetarian order – and then nervously looked at Tony.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stark, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm a big fan of Dr. Banner's work on cosmic radiation wavelength variations. I know there are internships at Stark Industries … are any of those specifically working with Dr. Banner?" At the first work, Tony started to preen under the attention, but this his eyes widened and Dean didn't hide his smirk.

"Actually, I'm not in charge of internships – Pepper won't let me, something about lawsuits – but I can give you the right name to ask." Tony jotted down some info on a business card he whipped out of a pocket and handed it over.

"Thank you. Really." As if he realized what he was doing, the waiter blushed and started to stammer, then turned and went back to the bar.

"Okay, insert joke here and let's move on, shall we?" Tony stalled Dean's quip. "Clint. Heard from him?"

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Dean tried connecting to the internet. It took a couple of tries to get the page to load, what with his older phone and slow speed. "18 days ago. Sweet Pea's BBQ in Knoxville, Tennessee."

"Mac-n-cheese, right? Nothing since?" Tony pulled a Stark tablet out of his pack and it instantly booted up.

"Look, damn it, if something's up with Clint, just tell us." Dean didn't have time for Stark's shit; a cold knot was tightening in his gut. It's not that Clint didn't go AWOL for months at a time – the man was a secret agent type, after all – but Dean had been feeling that they were all living on borrowed time. Artemis' bow was still out there and Morgan was only temporarily defeated; the psycho bitch didn't seem like the type who'd let a defeat go unpunished if she could.

"Problem is, according to SHIELD, Clint's undercover and out of contact," Tony sliced his burger in half and picked it up to take a bite after he refilled his whiskey glass and poured shots for both Winchesters. Dean took his and slid his beer aside. "Not unusual for Fury's little club house to tell us nothing, true, and I do so enjoy crashing his party. Seems they don't even know if he made it to the location; he hasn't checked in since receiving the orders. Again, nothing to worry about; it's happened before."

"So what makes you think he's missing?" Sam asked.

"You remember Stephen Strange?" was Tony's response. Oh, yeah, Dean knew that guy; magic woo-woo stuff, Strange had helped them lock Morgan out of this universe back in D. C. The man creeped Dean out, knowing shit no one else did; plus, magic equals witches and Dean hated it. "Strange called and said Clint was in trouble, and you were the ones to talk to about it."

"Us? Why?" Dean wasn't enjoying his burger, which was a shame because the food was really good, but he picked at it, his whole body tense; he was ready to go right now, jump in the car and get on I-75 South. Knoxville was only a couple hours down the road.

Tony handed the tablet to Sam. "Four deaths in the last two months. Reeks of your kind of weirdness. Looks like they simply went to sleep, all peaceful like, but no traces of drugs or any history of illness." He clicked another tab and the M.E. reports filled the screen. "Nothing in common between the victims – a young mother, a middle-age deer hunter, a grandfather, and a seventeen-year-old drop out." More documents, more open tabs. Sam was impressed, his mouth slightly open; damn man got a boner for techie stuff, and he was practically drooling at Stark's computer. "Here's the fun part, kiddies. Their brains were shrunk to half the normal size, and there were tiny little puncture marks on the back of their necks, little needle marks." He pushed the tablet over to Sam who wasted no time picking it up, giving the side a little stroke, looking to see if Dean noticed. Dean just grinned at his brother.

"These are in Clinton, Tennessee, just north of Knoxville. Not a wraith with the multiple marks and the peaceful bodies; they usually only leave one, just behind the ear." Sam read quickly. "You think this is where Clint went?"

"He sent Natasha a quick text not long after he posted that image for Dean, and GPS puts him heading north on Highway 25W, which goes right through Clinton. It's a place to start."

"Okay, but why don't you or Carol or someone check it out? Why would Strange want us?" Dean had been wondering that. SHIELD and Stark had many more resources than the brothers did; finding Clint should be a snap with Tony's tech.

"Strange said it had something to do with the psycho bitch from D. C. and the world ending which is your bailiwick if I remember. Who knows, the man must have done a little too much LSD; he's always tripping when I talk to him." Tony shook his head as Sam started to pass the tablet back. "Nope. Keep it. Carol's been after me since D. C. to get you something reliable; this puppy's got all the bells and whistles plus some that haven't been released yet. Permanent satellite Wi-Fi, for one; should work even underground and I know the reception's great in the middle of the Atlantic. Completely unhackable, except by me, of course, and logarithms to get into almost any database as long as there's a net connection." He drew two phones out of his bag and tossed them on the table. "Starkphones 7.4. Pretty much the same. I programmed in direct lines for Clint and Carol and me, plus Agent … Phil Coulson. Gets five bars at the bottom of the ocean, so you should be okay."

"Tony, these are …" Sam started, turning the tablet over with a mixture of awe and reverence.

"You think we're stupid? It's a way to track us, Sam, know our every move. No thanks." Dean eyed the phone as if it was a snake that might bite him.

"Oh, Deano, you think I can't do that now? Would you like me to tell you exactly what kind of pie Clint bought in D. C. and just how much you enjoyed it?" Tony laughed. "Who do you think set up the secure line between the two of you for your little chats? Want a copy of the security camera video?"

"Damn it, Stark, you can kiss my ass. Come on, Sam, we don't need his shit," Dean pushed back, angry now, starting to stand and storm off. The man was getting personal; there appeared to be no such thing as privacy from Tony's prying eyes.

"Sit down, Dean," Sam ordered and Dean, surprised, sat back down. "You already knew people were tracking us. I'd rather have Clint and Carol at the other end of the information than SHIELD, and we both know Tony is no fan of the government types. We're keeping it." To prove his point, he pocketed the phone and moved the tablet out of Dean's reach. "Besides, I know all about the pie and the video. You keep forgetting to clear your browser history."

"My own brother," Dean huffed, but he picked up the phone. "We're getting in deeper and deeper, Sam. I don' like it."

"Dude, you already made that choice when you got deep in Clint … I mean in deep with Clint." Tony winked and finished off his burger in one last big bite.

"I knew he was going to be trouble," Dean grumbled for show, knowing he was going after Clint and he'd take whatever help he could get. The man had been nothing but a problem from the second he'd swung down from the rafters of a barn right in front of Dean – he'd wormed his way into Dean's life in a way very few people had done. And connections … emotional ones … were a weakness neither Clint nor Dean … nor any of them really … could afford.

"Every damn day, I say the exact same thing," Tony said, picking up his pack and dropping enough money on the table to cover the whole bill plus an outrageous tip. "He maybe a pain-in-the-ass …" he paused meaningfully and looked at Dean, "…but he's our pain and I'll damn well not let anything happen to him on my watch."

Ace's Sporting Goods store was deceptive; square red brick, the building's main entrance was a battered wooden door, tiny windows on either side too small to see much of the interior. The wooden floors were in need of refinishing, wide planks shifting and moving, creaking as he stepped down the two stairs to get inside and avoided the giant stuffed buffalo head and life sized black bear. Small hand lettered signs pointed to the left for guns, to the right for fishing and up to the second floor for archery. Taking the steps two at a time, Clint emerged in a large room crammed with racks and display cases, stopping to take it all in. Dark wood paneled walls made the space seem confining, and every section not covered by bows or row after row of arrows was plastered with awards and certificates, photos and medals. This place was Nirvana; he recognized all the top brands plus some special orders that he'd love to get his hands on, vintage first generation compound and recurves.

"Can I help you, son?" Wearing a John Deere cap and with his long salt-n-pepper ponytail, the man wore a plaid shirt that snapped up the front, tight to his thin body, old worn jeans, some cowboy boots that looked lived in and well-loved, and a belt buckle that proclaimed he was a Vietnam veteran. His beard was neat and trimmed and he looked Clint up and down with his green eyes.

"Yes, sir, you can. I need to spend as much money as I can before my soon-to-be ex-wife gets her hands on it; been putting off getting a good rig … bow, arrows, whole nine yards … so now is the time." Clint offered his hand to the man. "Name's Rick and I see you have some Hoyt TDs over there that look pretty damn good."

"Bill Oakes," the man's grip was firm and his eyes sparkled. "I've got TD 3s and 2s. What length?"

"Not the TD3, the adjustable tiller's shit. A TD 2B, 64 inch would do unless you've got something better. Needs to be left handed." Clint followed Bill over to the counter where he opened a case and took out one of the many bows, laying in front of Clint.

"Got a Bear Kodiak Special Edition if you just want to blow money, but if you want a good bow, the regular Bear Take Down's a work horse." He laid a few more out. "You sure about that 64 inch? Might not have a lefty at that size."

"I'll take a 62 if we can adjust the risers." Picking up one, Clint ran his hand over the curve, took an easy stance and drew it back, the light pull no challenge. When he eased the string back, Bill was looking at him.

"Well, if you've got the interest, just so happened to get a brand new model, not really supposed to sell it yet, but we could give it a look see." Smiling, the man headed to the back room. "New Hoyt."

"The GM? Hell, yeah. Bring it out. Got a range to test fire a few?"

Clint spent a very pleasant two hours not only trying out bows, but a couple very nice firearms before settling on his favorites. All too happy to help out, Bill turned out to be an inveterate gossip; the time was well spent learning the lay of the land, and all of the workers loved the story about the vindictive woman leaving him for supposed greener pastures. He was sure Bill would be telling the tale for a long time to come … the man who bought hunting gear to spite his wife.

The total … two bows, a dozen arrows, three different types of broadheads, quiver, arm guard, a Glock 17, and a Winchester 70 … brought grins to everyone's faces, and Clint played it up, handing over the gold American Express card he'd copied off an unsuspecting traveling business man eating at the truck stop out by the interstate. He watched as Bill popped the card in the silver holder, covered it with a form, sliding the black rectangle over it and back before handing the form to Clint to sign. Filling out the paperwork was a snap with the fake driver's license, and Clint walked out with his purchases, no one the wiser.

He'd had two days now to think through how to survive since he'd fallen through the rabbit hole and woken up to Michael Jackson's "Beat It" on the radio and acid washed jeans with Izod shirts wandering the streets. So much in 1983 worked to his advantage: no computerized background checks or credit card machines to automatically check for theft which gave Clint leeway to figure out what was going on. Thank God for Tony's paranoia and the emergency pockets filled with cash and other necessities; identity theft was easier, but Clint was glad to have the choice.

He doubted anyone had noticed he was missing yet. On his way to Cincinnati for a mission, he'd stopped to top off the tank and grab a cup of coffee at a little convenience store, but had never made it back to his black SHIELD issued sedan, the one with his gear in the trunk. All he could remember was the sense that someone was watching him and then, BOOM, glitter gloves and ripped up sweatshirts. First thing he'd done was hitch a ride into the little town of Clinton … the irony of the name didn't escape him … and find a used car lot where some cash had gone towards a 1974 Chevy Nova SS. Damn fine car if not in the best condition; Dean would be jealous and that lead to some interesting little fantasies that distracted him for a few minutes as the engine growled. He argued them down since someone had painted the muscle car a nasty puke green.

Along with his new car and weapons, Clint now knew that there had been three mysterious deaths that were right up the Winchester's alley … and might just provide an answer for his own predicament. At least it gave him something to do. Starting the engine, and revving it once until she protested with a rattle, he headed over to the police station to check in. There was SHIELD in the 1980s after all, and Clint thought if anyone would understand, they would. Maybe Tony too, but Stark had never mentioned any earlier meeting with Clint. Of course, he might have kept it secret … nah, not Tony. Damn. All this thinking about the rules of time travel was threatening to ruin Clint's good mood. So he revved the engine one more time, patted a hand on her dashboard, and peeled out of the parking lot.

"Hey, the view is nice," Dean said as they dumped their bags the Ridgeview Motel room. The décor left a lot to be desired, but it was the only motel actually in the small town; the rest were out by the interstate. Dean had wanted to stop at the Christmas Tree Inn in Caryville because _Christmas Tree_ _Inn_, he'd argued, but Sam had vetoed it as too far away. Sam had been busy on his new tablet as Dean drove over Jellico Mountain, oohing and aahing until Dean had to smack him in the shoulder to shut him up about that damn computer and the Wi-Fi. Dean suspected Sam would be going on about it for days if not weeks; he'd gotten into the police files, pulling up docs that they normally would have had to lie and steal to get their hands on, reading through them all.

"The main detective on the case said she'd be working late, and we could come by after we meet with the M.E." Sam's fingers tapped on the tablet; he hadn't let the thing go for over two hours now. "We can split up and cover more ground." He tossed Dean a small compact mirror. "Don't forget the silver knife."

Like Dean would do that. Last time they'd run into a wraith, they'd been in a sanitarium and the bitch had almost gotten Sam and had left both of them delusional. Even though the reports on the victims didn't mention those going crazy or seeing things before they died, it never hurt to be prepared. Boy Scout Dean always prepared. Which reminded him, he needed to restock the wallet for when they found Clint. Despite his best efforts, Dean seemed to have little to willpower when it came to that man.

A short drive and they were at the county courthouse right near Main Street – yes, the town had a Main Street with an honest-to-god drugstore with a lunch counter! – and both the police and the coroner's office were in the same complex of buildings. Sam took the M.E. and Dean headed into find Detective Oakes, a middle-aged woman with soft curly brown hair, tortoise shell glasses, and a little bit too much weight around her middle. Her desk was cluttered with paperwork, an older model computer, and pictures of a golden retriever and a Siamese cat. She looked up as he approached and slid her brown eyes over his body, cocked an eyebrow and lifted the corner of one side of her mouth.

"Can I help you?" She seemed highly amused as she stood and offered Dean her hand.

"Agent Simmons, F.B.I. My partner, Agent Stanley, called you earlier; he headed over to talk to Dr. Hardin since we're getting a late start today. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the recent spate of deaths you're investigating." Dean knew the second he finished his spiel that she didn't buy it because she actually laughed out loud and squeezed his hand before she let it go.

"Nice one, Gene. But I was a big AC/DC fan when you were still a baby." She offered him a chair. "I was told to expect the Winchesters this evening and ordered to talk to them. You're Dean, by the description I got."

"Expected?" He asked, perplexed as he sat down, thrown off his stride.

"You have friends in high places it seems. The State Police Commissioner called my boss." She pulled open a file folder. "Doesn't really matter. I'll take all the help I can get on this case. It's personal to me."

"You know one of the vics?" Dean asked, leaning over to see the crime scene photos she laid out for him. Four bodies, looking for the world like they were sleeping peacefully, each in a different location.

"Small town, so, yeah. Angie Canady, just had her first baby last fall, goes to my zumba class. Murray Martin fell into drugs a couple years ago, was trying to get clean; I went to high school with his dad, Bernie. Robert Tomsic, pillar of the community, deacon at Second Baptist Church where I teach Sunday School. And Todd Anderson, works for my dad." She passed over each file as she named them. "But that's not why. 1983, six people died from the exact same wounds over the course of one summer. A mother, a middle aged man, a grandparent, a teenager, a little girl, and a cop. My brother was the teenager who was killed."

"I'm sorry," seemed the right thing to say. "Must be difficult to look at these."

"Trust me, I've poured over my brother's case file so many times, these look familiar. That's one of my problems. I need some fresh eyes to see what we missed. In '83, there killing simply stopped; the theory was always that the murderer moved on to somewhere else, but I don't buy it. Soon as the FBI's new database came online, I ran the particulars through to look for matches and got a series of hits, every four years, always six victims in small towns. But 1983 was the first set of deaths, and now it's happening again here."

Dean's brain was working on connections; they'd seen this before, monsters that came back to the same feeding grounds, even creatures who repeated at intervals of years at a time. Usually, that meant they had a connection to this place. 1983 must be important – like a rugaru who came of age or a vampire newly made, something had happened in this town in that year. He glanced up to see the detective watching him with suspicious eyes; she sensed he knew more than he was telling her. A woman driven by her brother's death, probably right into a job in law enforcement to find justice, might turn out to be a problem.

"I did find some other cases of deaths with decreased brain fluid and one puncture mark behind the ear, but there were signs of drug use in those cases." Marie turned and pulled up another screen; Dean didn't flinch when he saw Ketchum, Oklahoma. He already knew everything he needed to about that case. "That's why you're here, right? You think the same thing or something similar did both of these?"

"Thing? Don't you mean person?" That little word choice didn't slip past Dean; Marie was already jumping to the logical conclusion most people avoided. When you do away with the probable, what's left, no matter how improbable, must be the answer. Sherlock Holmes, Dean thought, that's who said it. In a world were monsters lived next door, most people didn't want to see the truth in front of them because, as a wizard-for-hire Dean had run into once liked to say, monsters aren't real. They can't be. If they are, people would have to spend their lives in a state of constant fear.

"I'm open to all possibilities." Marie leaned forward, a serious stare aimed right at Dean. "Heaven and Earth, Horatio, as Hamlet says."

"We've ruled out the same perpetrator," Dean leveled with her. "No delusions and insanity; the thing that killed the people in Glenwood Springs Psych Hospital liked to play with them first, feed on their fear – different brain chemistry. This is too peaceful and there are multiple marks. But I'd bet anything there's going to be two more who fit the pattern; we just have to figure out who."

"Before a little girl dies, yeah, I'm aware of that," the detective said as fatigue wiped across her face. She'd been working hard and it showed. "I just don't know where to start."

"Actually, I have an idea." Dean's words revived her; the possibility of a new lead to follow grabbed her interest. "Can you find out if a black Dodge Charger, 2013, government plates, has been found abandoned in the area in the last couple weeks?"

She tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look, but didn't ask the obvious question, instead picking up her phone and dialing an extension. "Harry? You still there? Anybody impounded a black Dodge Charger …. Yeah, government plates … with what? A bow and arrows? …. SHIELD ... Thanks, I'd appreciate it … where? … okay. No more than 15 if we do … Yeah, I'm on for carpool Tuesday and Thursday … Get your own, buddy." She made her goodbyes and hung up and sat quietly waiting for Dean to fill in the blanks.

"SHIELD Agent Barton was last heard from traveling on 25W." That was enough for Dean to offer.

"SHIELD? That explains the Commissioner's phone call. You could have just said so," she seemed miffed by Dean's lack of trust. "Mark out at the Git Go on Old Clinton Highway called it in twelve days ago. There was very little to go on, just a corporation name on the registration and insurance; it'll go up at auction if no one claims it. Along with the very expensive equipment inside the trunk."

"Ah, hell, that'll piss him off. You couldn't let me take it?" God, but Clint loved his bow and he'd rip a new one to anybody who messed with it.

"I was told full cooperation, whatever you need. Want to take a stroll back to the motor pool?" She rose and stretched. "I've been sitting here far too long. A drive out to the Git Go sounds like a plan; they installed video cameras last year after that string of robberies; just kids after drug money, but they did some serious property damage."

"1983. Marie is copying the files now. Meet me at the car and we'll put it all together." Dean carefully loaded the bow case into the back of the Impala, swinging in the black backpack with Clint's tablet and extra set of TAC gear. Man traveled light, almost as little as Dean and Sam. Came from being on the road all the time; Dean didn't need much, in truth, and having to pack and unpack all the time made paring down necessary. "Yes, I'm sure you can find them on your new girlfriend. You going to sleep with her on the first date?" Shutting the door, Dean laughed at Sam's response. "No, I've got a perfectly good phone. Why do I need a new one?"

The smallest of sounds, a tiny stir of air – Dean dropped the older flip phone from his ear and turned his head; the street lamp cast a bright spotlight on the parking lot, glinting off of the light bars of the patrol cars.

"Dean?" Sam was saying. "You still there?"

"Something's up. I'm going to …"

A flutter and a breeze, Dean blinked, and he was on his back, looking at the late afternoon sun. Gravel crunched and a pair of black boots stopped by his head; shielding his eyes, Dean squinted as someone leaned over him, blocking the light.

"Dean. Miss me that much?" Clint smiled and offered him a hand up.


	2. Living in a Powder Keg

_**NOW**_

The Impala sat unlocked under the street light in the parking lot; Sam circled the car one more time, palming Dean's cellphone into his pocket. Clint's bow case and duffle were in the back seat, but no Dean. It was like he'd simply vanished between one breath and the next; Sam had heard the phone hit the ground and then nothing.

"Can I help you?" The middle aged woman stopped just outside the police station's door, looking him over. With a gun on her belt and a badge clipped next to it, she was probably a detective.

"Actually, this is my partner's car and I'm looking for him. Agent Simmons?" He was getting worried. First Clint, now Dean. In his experience, coincidences didn't happen, and those specific two people? It was fishy, to say the least.

"Oh, you must be Sam." She held out her hand. "Marie Oakes. Dean left not more than fifteen minutes ago to find you."

Sam blinked at her use of their names, but Dean must have had a reason to give them to her. "I was on the phone with him and he just dropped out."

"Well, lucky for you that we have real time video of the lot." She held the door open for him. "The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, now your brother?" Since she seemed to know more about things that he did, Sam followed her back into the station, sure that this business was only going to get messier.

_**1983**_

"Oh, god, not the 80s." Dean sat in the booth of the tiny pizza parlor across the street from the courthouse watching a gaggle of teenage girls drop quarters into the jukebox. He winced when the first notes of Rick Springfield's "Affair of the Heart" started playing; they could have at least picked Poison or Journey or something beside a _Teen Beat_ heartthrob.

"Oh come on, I bet you looked really cute in your sparkly glove and socks." Clint sipped his beer and tapped his fingers in time to the music just to annoy Dean. He did so enjoy annoying Dean. Pay back for Dean looking damn fine in his suit pants with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened.

"Dude, I was … I AM 4-years-old," Dean shot back and a shadow settled in his eyes. He turned away and shifted in his seat; Clint remembered that Dean's mom died in November of 1983. Somewhere, right now, a little Dean was living with his parents and his baby brother, blissfully unaware of demons and hell and monsters. It was a sobering thought.

"Let's see, I'm almost 10 and just joined Carson's. We ran away from the orphanage in the summer of '82." He eased his leg over until he was touching Dean's under the table, rubbing gently without looking at him. His shoulders rose and fell, and then Dean cocked his head, the memory passing.

"We, old man?" he asked, lips curling up in a smile. The waitress brought their pizza over, smiling at them; Brenda, as the name tag proclaimed, snatched up their empty bottles to get them another round, the model of efficiency. Probably because she knew she had a better chance at a good tip from them than from all the teenagers in the joint.

"Barney and I were still together." Clint reached for the biggest piece of the loaded pie, but Dean beat him to it, so Clint dragged two over to spit him. "Maybe I could call him; the circus wintered in Destin, Florida. Warn him." There was his own shadows, the memory of Barney at that age, still young enough to think a good life was possible, with hope for a better future, before things changed.

"Yeah, no, that doesn't work. Tried it." Dean shook his head, brushing a hand along Clint's thigh in sympathy. "Destiny or fate or some shit, according to the dickless angels. No matter what I did, the bad stuff still happened."

"You've done this before? Time travel?" Even Clint had to admit the girls' choice in music was terrible when the ballad "Tonight, I Celebrate My Love for You" blared out of the speakers. He groaned.

"Yep. Hopped the angel train twice back to the '70s and fucked things up royally. That's why I prefer to stay in my own timeline." Dean took a large bite of the still steaming hot pizza and frantically waved his hand in front of his mouth. "Damn angels," he mumbled as he chewed.

"They can travel in time?" Clint asked, being a little more judicious as he ate. As far as he knew, you could travel through dimensions, even jump forward any number of years, but time travel into the past was scientifically impossible. But, hey, he used to think ghosts and vampires were too.

"Only way I know to do it. But they're all caught in the mess upstairs after the big Lucifer rumble. With big brother Mike and Luci trapped in the pit, there's no one in charge up there." Dean shrugged at Clint's look; the man just casually talked about heavenly politics as if it was everyday knowledge. "Hey, you know aliens and super villains, I know angels and demons."

Squeals of delight when the first notes of "True" by Spandau Ballet started; Dean winced as even more girls joined the first group, pulling two other tables over. They were all wearing black track shorts and white baseball shirts with orange sleeves; the back of the shirt proclaimed 'Color Guard.' Some of the older girls, maybe 17 or 18 at the most, eyed the two men at the table, and then turned, whispering to the others. More glances and giggles rolled through the group. Great, Clint thought. Now they had groupies.

"So, angels? How do we know if they're involved?" Clint snagged a second piece of pizza and tried to ignore the attention from the gaggle of girls. Dean seemed unbothered by the whole thing.

"You simply ask," the man standing by the table answered. Clint's gun was halfway out of his waistband when Dean laid a hand on his wrist, pushing it back down under the table.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean said, exasperation lacing his words. "What have I told you about appearing in public?" He kicked a chair out and nodded towards it. The khaki trench coat hung open over the man's rumpled suit and loose tie; he was waiting, inhuman in his stillness. Damn cute, if you were into impossibly blue puppy dog eyes, dark curly hair, a runner's lean body, and a world weary weight on his shoulders

"I came in through the door," Cas insisted as he sat down. The conversation was easy and familiar, the banter of two people who knew each other well. A knot settled in Clint's stomach; who was this guy to Dean? "I apologize for surprising you, Clinton."

"Clint," he offered; Dean rolled his eyes. "And you are?"

"Castiel, an angel of the Lord." Clint just accepted that it was true. Why not? Gods and ghosts and aliens and magic … what was an angel with a dry wit but par for the course? He knew Dean had been involved in averting the apocalypse, the heavenly epic throw down, but an angel sitting in a pizza joint brought the reality of it all home. And the fact that Dean was comfortable around this guy? He didn't want to think about competing with divine power. Hell of an ex-boyfriend.

Some of the girls wondered by the table, heading for the bathrooms in the back, passing very close to Dean's chair. Castiel blushed and dropped his eyes. "What is that look for?" Dean asked the angel.

"Those girls were thinking impure thoughts about you," the angel said in a low voice. "Very loudly too. Does the pizza have anything to do with it?"

"Yeah, well, this isn't porno, dude; they're teenagers. It's what they think about." Dean brushed it off, but Castiel kept watching the girls with concern in his eyes. "I'm more interested in why we're in the era of shoulder pads and Joan Collins."

"I was the one who brought you both here." The angel turned his attention back to them and dropped that little bomb without even a flinch.

"You? Why? I thought you were busy with the chaos upstairs." Dean leaned in, frustration in his eyes.

"There have been some changes in Heaven," Cas spoke, choosing his words carefully. "The new hierarchy has determined we can no longer afford to ignore what is happening on the Earth when events may affect all of us."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked. Clint was only halfway following the conversation; he didn't really care about angels or heaven, just why the hell they were here. But he sat back and let Dean question the angel, watching their body language … or lack thereof in Castiel's case. Dean was clearly used to the angel's eccentricities, but still annoyed and exasperated by his answers.

"A new power is interfering, changing the balance established by my Father. That cannot be allowed." Cas reached down for a slice of pizza; the others had stopped eating, distracted by the angel's announcement. As Brenda returned, Cas took Dean's beer and very courteously asked for another. "One of the first battles angels waged was to cast out all those who sowed chaos; we were tasked with ensuring they didn't return."

"Morwen." Clint stated the obvious; they'd already run into the goddess, once via proxy and a second time after she took the form of Carol Danvers. "She's eating up all the other gods' power. A real piece of work."

"Yes." Castiel nodded in agreement. "She is a bitch."

Clint blinked and Dean laughed.

"Is that not the correct word?" All innocence … honestly … Castiel looked confused.

"It fits her fine," Dean told him. "So you know her?"

"It's in the scriptures, Dean. The scribe Enoch wrote about those assigned to watch mankind who corrupted you instead, setting themselves up as rivals to God. Morwen was one of the first and most powerful; she brought magic into the world, the pure energy of chaos, and she played on men's vanities. Michael and Uriel led the battle to lock them all away; the destruction was immense. Only a few faithful survived."

"Wait … you're talking Old Testament destruction? Like Noah and the flood?" Clint asked. Dean raised an eyebrow in question, like he didn't expect Clint to know any of this. "Hey. When you deal with crazy shit all the time, you read, okay? Been catching up on moldy gods and goddesses since Hecate and Hera dropped in. The flood is a common theme in a lot of cultures."

"Exactly. The very face of the Earth itself was changed. The watchers had children with humans, giving birth to monsters. Many joined with us to end the threat: gods, demons, and humans." Obviously, Cas liked pizza because he was polishing off the rest while Clint was trying to process all the information.

"I thought Eve was the mother of all monsters?" Dean protested. "Are you saying she was human once and got it on with one of these watchers?" Okay, there was another name to ask Dean about later; Clint though Eve was Adam's wife.

"She was seduced and given a twisted power of creation, yes. Giants, vampires, titans … all of them came about in the same way." Cas looked longingly at the empty silver platter. "This is good pizza. I have missed human food."

"So, you're saying that Morwen is the mother of all witches, the great aunt of the Mother of All Monsters, the, what? …. Aunt? … of the Titans? Fucking hell, Cas." Dean rolled his eyes. "And more powerful than all of them?"

"Yes." He seemed satisfied that they understood, but Clint was still thinking it all through.

"So, why drag us here to 1983?" Clint asked. All of this background was nice, but that was the million dollar question. "You said she was interfering?"

"She's trying to break back through into this universe after you successfully expelled her; we can narrow the energy she's using down to this place and time, but she's hidden the rest. That's why we need you to figure out what her plan is." Cas's face grew even more serious, something Clint didn't think was possible. "The two of you have the best chance to stop her, given the improbability of your relationship."

"Improbability?" Clint prodded for more; yes, the two of them weren't a model couple, that was for sure. Hell, they weren't even a _couple_ couple, more like a _sometimes _couple, but improbable? Cas turned sympathetic eyes on him.

"I'm sorry, but you should never have met." Cas sighed. "When Morwen began to collect powerful icons, she set in motion a chain of events that brought you into each other's spheres of influence. We actively try to keep people like you apart unless the danger warrants the risk."

"Whoa, whoa, what?" Dean demanded, confused and angry. "People like us?"

"Some people are catalysts, meant to set events in motion or alter the path of human history; they are usually lone individuals, heroes if you will, who are called upon in times of great struggle. Put two such people together, and you have a focal point that represents a danger for the structure of the universes; they can send ripples through multiple dimensions," Cas explained, looking at Dean. "You and Sam, for example, had to be together to play your roles in the apocalypse, and you can see the power of two catalysts working towards the same goal. Add Clint Barton into the mix, and the very fabric of time itself could become unstable. There have never been three of you working together that didn't end in disaster."

**NOW**

Sam drained the last drops from his paper cup, more caffeine to keep going; he couldn't sleep, not until he found something that would help find Dean and Clint. The video footage had been monumentally unhelpful. Dean, on the phone, standing by the car, walked out of the camera range, the lens trained on the entrance of the station and the end of the lot. Sam and Marie had looked over it with a magnifying glass at least ten times before Sam finally left with a copy on his tablet. For a change of pace, he poured over the information on the murders he'd gotten from the ME and Marie, thinking something had to be in the details, a connection. But he had hit a wall; words were running together and the crime scene photos were blurs in his memory.

He'd called Bobby first thing when he got back to the hotel with his deli sandwich from the same Git Go that Clint had disappeared from; giving him the particulars, Sam knew Bobby would start researching. After a few moments hesitation, he pulled up the number on his new phone and hit dial, waiting through the four rings until Carol's voice told him she couldn't come to the phone. He tried not to sound awkward, but leaving a message for a woman who was a superhero, as well as a past lover, wasn't the easiest thing to do. Honestly, he'd been sure she wouldn't answer; the last message he'd gotten from her indicated she'd be out-of-contact for a month or so, off on some Avenger business, but it felt right to start with her. Then he turned to the internet, the stable connection a godsend – no, Tony Stark wasn't a god, but he was damn brilliant – instant access to the Library of Congress and the British Library offering up a wealth of older manuscripts. The University of Montana had a witchcraft and magic section of their archives that was unrivaled; he'd never been able to get permission to use it, but Bobby had once or twice. Now it was available with the tap of a finger. Still, it took most of the night to find even the briefest reference to something similar; finally, in an 8th century monk's history of the Roman Empire, he ran across a story of a monster who stole memories, eating the 'soup' of the soul, an ancient belief that brain fluid held the key to the self. Then, in a copy of Middle Eastern poetry, he found another, a reference to the First Shadow who needed the strength of others to become whole. That sent him down another avenue of research, looking at Egyptian magic surrounding the resurrection of mummies. Dean would have quoted the movie, made some joke about librarians, but the Book of the Dead was a real magical artifact and in a scan of one of the few surviving pages, he found notes about the power to stealing a person's soul. Interestingly, while fear might make the fluid taste better, a relaxed victim gave more revitalizing energy.

When Bobby called back, he had even worse news; not only were they looking for an ancient monster who was sucking brains dry, the only thing that could do these things was the Alpha Wraith – but according to legend, some moldy Greek hero killed it as one of his tests of will. No one had heard of it since B.C. years, or B.C.E. or whatever new dating system they were using at the moment. So either they were looking at the ghost of the original, a raised from the dead pissed-off big bad, or the Alpha had been somewhere else all this time.. All of the above were not good, and none of them explained where Dean and Clint had gone.

"I'm telling you, Bobby, I've got a real bad feeling about this," Sam said into phone. "I think it's all related. We met Clint the first time when the vampires and zealots were after Hecate's pin. Then we were together again in D. C. and it was werewolves, revenants, Carol possessed by Morwen, and Hera's bowl. Now Clint and Dean are missing, we've got an Alpha wraith … Morwen is going to pop up at any minute. And something else. There's always one more thing."

"I agree with you, boy. I've got a call in to a scholar I know might could be able to help us, but he's out of the office until Thursday. I'll keep trying. You work on your end and see if you can find this dried up old wraith. You remember how to kill 'em, so don't go out unarmed," Bobby said. "Too bad you don't have better video of the disappearances, both of 'em."

After he hung up, Bobby's words echoed; despite having cameras as the gas station Clint stopped at, the tape was set on an automatic rewrite every week, so there'd been nothing to see. If he had some way to get better …. Before he could think it out more, Sam was dialing Tony Stark's number; a very short and very snarky message came on after seven rings, so Sam hung up with saying anything. There was one other option; a voice picked up on the second ring.

"Sam Winchester?"

It occurred to Sam that he hadn't checked the time; it was 3:47 a.m. where he was. "Um, yes. I'm sorry to bother you; I didn't realize the time."

"That's not a problem. Do you have news about Agent Barton?" Whoever this was, he was definitely concerned and sounded wide awake.

"Sort of. My brother Dean disappeared late yesterday from the Courthouse parking lot in Clinton, Tennessee. I think the same thing happened to him that happened to Clint. He'd just found Clint's car in the police compound lot. I tried calling Carol earlier, and Tony just a few minutes ago, but neither answered."

"Carol is out of range of communications," he told Sam. "And Tony's in transit. Tell me what you need."

"Is there any way to get satellite imagery of the locations where they were taken? I know exactly when Dean vanished – we were on the phone at the time – and we can narrow Clint's down to a window of about six hours."

"I'll have the data for you in less than an hour. Infrared, topographical … whatever I can get my hands on." Sam could hear papers shuffling and sounds of movement. "Tony gave you the new tablet, right? It can handle the files Jarvis will send to you. Anything else?"

"Ah, yeah, well, Tony sort of listed you under 'Agent.' Do you mind telling me your name?" Sam felt stupid for asking, but he'd like to know.

"Phil Coulson. Call me any time. I'll do whatever I can to get Clint back."

Sam remembered him then, the man in the dark suit who'd picked Clint up in Pennsylvania; he'd sent the pic of Dean and Clint kissing. With a few taps, Sam changed the contact name to Phil.

**1983**

"I have to go." Cas shifted his chair back from the table and stood. "There are still factions pushing for even greater change; I can't be away for too long."

"Oh, no, you can't drop a bombshell like that walk away!" Dean grabbed Cas's wrist, wrapping his fingers around until the tips touched each other, pissed with the whole situation. The jukebox began a new song; Bob Seeger sang about some men going crazy and some going slow. Dean agreed that you never really knew a man until you'd stood beside him, and he and Cas had covered each other's back before. There was more to this than the angel was telling.

"You knew you were Michael's vessel, Dean. Why is it difficult to believe others might be important as well?" Cas was puzzled by the reaction. Once again, it was the same old shit; angels do what they want and don't bother to tell the people involved a damn thing. Dean was more than done with divine intervention and Cas not spilling all the beans, but he knew that forcing him wouldn't work. Cas would tell him eventually.

"Wait. If we stop her here in 1983, then do we cause a rip in the time/space continuum?" Clint asked in a level voice. Dean started to razz the other man about watching too much TV, but then it would be the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't it? Truth was, he was just as worried about it as Clint seemed to be. What if they succeeded in stopping Morwen here in this time? What effects would that have on their time … on the two of them?

"That depends upon you," Cas said. "If she succeeds here, then the future will be different. If not, things remain as they were. As to the two of you, what is done cannot be undone." He cocked his head as if listening to an unheard voice. "I know you can figure this out." With that statement of support, he headed for the door; about half of the teenage girls had left, but the ones still there watched him go. A black haired girl blushed when she realized Dean noticed her and ducked her head to whisper to another friend.

"God damn it, the whole 'works in mysterious ways' shit gets old after a while." Dean finished off his beer and dug into his pocket for his wallet; the driver's license and credit cards were useless, but the whole bill was less than a twenty even with a good tip. He tossed the money on the table and stood. "I think I know where to start."

Clint followed him up the concrete stairs and out into the parking lot; Dean stopped and had to smother a laugh, putting a hand on Clint's chest to keep him from stepping out of the shadows of the overhang. Doors ajar, three of the girls were dancing on a Toyota Corona, one on the roof, another on the hood, the last one on the trunk. The theme from the movie_ Flashdance_ was blasting through the speakers as they spun around. Dean watched them for a moment; he'd never been that young and innocent, running on pure emotion without caring about who was around. At the same age, he'd been hunting already, taking care of Sam and worrying about his dad.

"Thinking about sex one minute then being a kid the next. Wonder what that was like?" Clint murmured; his body was near, close enough to feel the warmth of his exhale.

"Wouldn't know," Clint answered. The idea to lean back hit Dean, to narrow the distance between them, but he hesitated; it really wasn't the time or place, not when anyone could walk up. Still, he felt the briefest touch of Clint's hand on the small of his back, comforting fingerprints lingering.

A Dodge Omni pulled in the lot and parked; a man emerged, wearing a camouflage hat, a snap up plaid cowboy shirt and beat up old boots with his jeans. The girls, taken up in the music, kept dancing, long brown hair flying as the girl on the top spun; the one on the hood giggled and bouncing, shaking her curly hair and the car itself.

"Ladies?" The man spoke.

"Dad!" The girl on the hood immediately stopped and slid off, standing in her bare feet. The other two clambered down, one of them shutting off the music. "Um, we were just …"

"Disturbing the peace? You know the police are just across the street," he said with a smile, obviously not too upset. "You ready to go or do I need to pay the bill, Marie Elise?"

"Oh, I forgot." Marie ducked her head into the open door and came back out with her pocket book. "I can …"

"I'll take care of it while you put the bags in the car."

Dean took that as a sign to move and scuffed his feet on the last step, sensing Clint following.

"Bill," Clint held out his hand and crossed to the man. "Nice to see you again."

"Rick! How's it going?" They shook hands and Clint turned to introduce them.

"Bill Oakes, my brother Dean. Dean, Bill Oakes, a man who really knows his bows."

It clicked in his head, and he couldn't help but glance over at the teenager plucking a small duffle out of the trunk of the Toyota. Marie Oakes, future police detective, was laughing with her friends.

"Nice to meet you," he responded, his brain at work putting together the pieces.

"He's going to help me move some furniture this weekend," Clint supplied with a wink.

"Ah, of course. Well, Rob Norton runs a nice storage facility out by the interstate If you need some space, and he's very low key," Bill said. "I better get in there and settle up; they say teenage boys eat you out of house and home, but girls are just as bad."

Dean didn't ask, not until they were in the Chevy, and Clint turned onto the main street. "Okay, brother I get, but furniture?"

"Bill might have the idea that I've got a soon to-be ex-wife I'm trying to stiff. Explains why I bought a bow, a handgun, and a rifle this afternoon," Clint explained.

"Well, I spent a few hours talking to his daughter earlier today before Cas did his time travel hop. Seems little Marie Elise grows up to be Detective Marie Oakes of the Clinton Police Department," Dean said as Clint turned the car across the bridge over the Clinch River. "She's the lead investigator on three murder cases. Interestingly enough, they follow a similar pattern to six deaths that happened in …. Drum roll, please … 1983."

"Bodies look like they went to sleep, but brain fluid at really low levels?" Clint spun the wheel, the suspension squealed in protest, and they turned into the parking lot of the Ridgeview Motel.

"You are kidding me?" Dean laughed. "Please tell me you're not in room 8."

"Three. Why?" Clint pulled into a parking space. "Ah … you and Sam are here too? Were here. Will be here? Damn verb tenses." He turned off the car and the engine rattled a few seconds too long. "Tell me about the murders."

"There will be six of them in 1983, the first time they happened. Will happen. Whatever." He didn't have anything, just his new phone in his pocket and the papers he'd stuffed into his jacket. One of the bullet points on his to do list was stopping by a store to buy some clothes; Clint seemed to have the cash flow problem worked out, but there wouldn't be a Walmart nearby. "How many so far?"

Clint unlocked the door to the room and tossed his key on the dresser under the mirror; the room, shabby when Dean and Sam checked in, was in much better shape in this time, clean and less threadbare. "Three. A young mother, a middle aged man, and an elderly retired woman."

Taking out the copies of the files Marie – the older version – had given him, Dean laid them out on the small round table in front of the window. "That puts … hell, the next victim is Marie's brother, John David Oakes. He's 15 and will die tomorrow at 4:47 p.m.; his body is found down by the creek behind the high school gym. That's why she becomes a cop." He handed the picture over to Clint.

"Hell of a place to start." Clint looked at the image of the dead boy with his hands folded over his chest, seemingly asleep and at peace. "That gives us a day to see what else we can find. I can't really work the F.B.I. or cop angle, but you can be my brother the agent?"

"Reporter, maybe. Come to town to help you and see the story, reminds me of one I've covered before." Dean nodded; that might work since he'd done the journalism angle before. Rubbing his hand over his face, he felt tired suddenly, faced with the reality of their situation. "I keep thinking there should be someone around to call for help, but everyone I come up with is either not born or happily married or not in the life yet."

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s around. I've thought about contacting them, but it was a different organization in this time. Coulson and Fury are both in the army right now; actually got the number for M.I.T. to try and find Tony – he's probably in the middle of building Dum-e. Of everyone, he'd believe us, but what could he do?" Clint shook his head. "What about the angels? Is there a hotline or prayer line or something?"

"Angels? They're dickheads. Don't look for help from them." Dean snorted, disgust evident in his voice. "Can't trust them as far as you can throw them … well, most of them. Cas is good, Balthasar came through in a pinch, and Gabriel's okay for a smartass trickster type. But the rest? Asses to the last of them."

"Cas … Castiel, the one who brought us here. You trust that he knows what he's doing? Not just jerking our chains?" Clint was obviously concerned and who could blame him? A friendly neighborhood angel shows up and pops you back 20 or so years? If Dean didn't know Cas so well, he'd be doubtful too.

"Cas has our backs. Went to the mat for Sam and me during the almost apocalypse; Lucifer blew him up for his trouble. Killed other angels to protect us. Yeah, I trust him." The fact that it was Cas who'd done this made the whole situation that much more worrisome; Morwen was seriously fucking up the world and Cas was dropping little bombs about focal points and catalysts. Not good.

"So, you and Cas are … friends?" Clint's voice was guarded, and he had that look on his face, the one that betrayed absolutely no emotion at all. Resting face, my ass, Dean thought. That was Clint's mask.

"Dude died for me. I'd do the same for him." The truth, unvarnished. There were very few people alive Dean could say that about … Sam, Bobby, Cas, and now Clint. "Whatever you want to call that."

"Okay." Clint closed down, turning his body away before it struck Dean exactly what Clint was asking him. He reached out and grabbed Clint's arm, pulling him back.

"You're jealous!" Dean corralled Clint by holding onto each arm, herding him until his back hit the wall, just a few steps behind them. "Totally going green-eyed on me, Barton?"

"That's Banner's job, not mine. Just getting the lay of the land." Clint's blue-grey eyes were still shuttered to hide his feelings, but Dean wasn't having any of that shit. "We're not exclusive or anything. It helps to know if there are any emotional entanglements, anything that might cause potential problems."

"Entanglements … lay of the land … god, you know what it does to me when you talk dirty," he gave a low, throaty laugh. To match his words, Dean tangled his hand into Clint's hair, extending along the stubbly jawline. With his other hand, he dragged his thumb across his bottom lip. "Are you asking me if I fucked Cas?" Clint didn't respond, just raised an eyebrow and waited; Dean meant to draw it out, torment Clint a little more, but he really wanted nothing more than to kiss some sense into the man. Any resolve he had broke when Clint parted his lips so the tip of his tongue could swipe along the pad of Dean's thumb. Replacing his finger with his lips, Dean let his mouth caress Clint's, tilting his head to the side to get better contact.

"Did you?" Clint's words vibrated along Dean's mouth.

"Nope. Never." It was impossible to explain why; between Jimmy Novak, Cas' innocence, and the whole 'bigger than the Chrysler building' thing, sex wasn't something that ever crossed Dean's mind. Plus there was the whole Meg flirtation – creepy as it was – and Novak's wife. "Guess he wasn't enough of a smartass for me."

Clint's hand hooked the belt loop of Dean's dress slacks as he reeled him in for a harder, faster kiss that quickly escalated into full on body-to-body friction and twin moans. It was always like this with them; no matter how much Dean resolved not to fall right back into Clint's orbit, every damn time they ended up in each other's arms. Sex was inevitable and enjoyable and it should be getting old, worn, boring like always but it wasn't, and no one was more surprised than Dean. Except for Lisa, he'd never had a relationship last longer than the one he had with Clint. Hunters didn't have families or day jobs or barbeques; they had crappy motel rooms and fried foods and new scars every week. But Clint? Clint was different; if anything his life was even crazier than Dean's, what with the superhero, alter ego, super spy, assassin gig. That plus he understood the fun of a dysfunctional childhood. But none of that explained why Dean wanted to do nothing but stay like this, trapping Clint with his body, kissing the living hell out of him until they were both so hard there was no stopping until one of them was buried deep in the other and the only thing they could think of was how good it felt.

"Dean," Clint murmured.

"I know." Dean sighed as he literally forced himself to step back. His cock was aroused and aching, but his brain was coming back online. "Miles to go. I need some clothes and then we need a plan. Some whiskey would be nice."

"And a stop by the drugstore." Clint shifted his jeans around his own hard erection. "Maybe they have the heat sensitive kind of condoms."

**1973**

Iowa was a desolate place in the winter, snow covering the flat plains, small houses seeming to shiver in the cold. The jump in time had drained him enough that he resorted to human conveyance, picking out a lovely brown BMW to drive to the small squat block building. Hidden from human eyes, the sigils and warnings glowed bright in the evening light; warded from monsters and demons and angels, the place appeared to be abandoned, but he knew looks could be deceiving. Parking, he eased out, careful to expend only enough energy to keep his boots from breaking through the crust of muddy slush, he made his way to the locked door and pushed it open with no effort at all.

The main room was bleak: fake wood paneling on the walls, cement floor, folding metal chairs with uneven legs, and a couple of bulletin boards haphazardly hung on the wall with papers pinned announcing potlucks and choir concerts. Even as he stepped in, a back door swung open and a woman stood framed in the stark light. Her long blonde hair was pulled back, petite body covered in jeans, snow boots, and an oversized cable knit sweater to combat the chill in the air. Blue eyes widened, then she smiled.

"You're too late. The gifting is already complete," she announced with just a hint of accent; she'd been too long hidden in the human world, assimilating.

"You know you have only succeeded in making the child a target. She is going to come; it would be better to destroy the bow completely." It was an old argument. No one believed him but he was convinced. He remembered her relentless drive, the core of evil that infected everything she touched. She would return and have her revenge on them all. Why couldn't they see that?

"True. But he can handle it. There are angels assigned to his case; his birth was arranged. He will be important in the course of the universe. My father foretold it before he was murdered."

He hoped that was true, but he wouldn't trust it; plucking the name from her mind, he left and got back in the car, heading for the hospital to see for this child for himself.


	3. When I Get That Feeling

Chapter 3 "When I get that Feeling"

NOW

Two days. Sam had been running in circles for two days, following every avenue, chasing down every lead. Damn phone kept right up with him, the new tablet purring along at warp speed, but to no avail. He'd talked to Coulson again yesterday, hoping his resources might help track down the monster before it struck again; he had SHIELD researchers on the task, but Sam didn't put much stock in what they'd find. Bobby had gotten some information a way to see through a wraith's glamour without needing a mirror and sent the ingredients of a salve so Sam wasted a whole day finding them all. The problem was the Alpha Wraith's pattern was too random; sure the types of victims were the same, but the lengths of times, the specifics, were all different, making it impossible to track it down. He pushed the files across the library table and pulled the tablet back in front of him ready to start again.

"When's the last time you slept?" Marie asked him. She'd been with him, step-by-step, determined no one else was going to die on her watch; this morning, she'd found him in the small local library, half-zoned out, scrolling through another reel of microfilm.

"I'll sleep when we figure this out." He'd caught a few hours on the couch in the squad room late yesterday, just before Coulson sent new files that kept him up all night long.

"Look, you can't think, you're so tired. Go back to your hotel. You're going to miss something. Besides, I often wake up and the answer is there. I think the brain needs time to process, if you know what I mean." She had the mom voice down, or maybe that was just a cop voice of sympathy. "I'll call you if anything comes up."

He didn't want to, but, truth was, a shower and sleep would give him a new perspective. And maybe Marie was right; his brain might click into gear and get somewhere. He'd just finish the reel and then he'd go.

Sam was turning the handle so fast the picture almost slid off the side of the screen. He rolled it back, framed it in the middle and increased the magnification. That was absolutely Dean, Member's Only jacket and Izod shirt aside, behind two police detectives who were standing on the front porch of a clapboard house. Half out of the picture and turned to the side, Clint was standing in the crowd of onlookers. DRUG EPIDEMIC OR MURDER? the headline asked. Adjusting the focus, Sam checked the date: April 14, 1983.

"Damn," he cursed, clicking on the article to print.

"What?" Marie looked over his shoulder. "Isn't that Dean? But how?"

"That's a good question. If we find the answer, I bet we'll be a lot closer to solving this thing." The printer next to the librarian's desk began to spit out a copy. "We track down the cops in the picture, they might tell us something useful."

"Not hard to do." Marie pointed to the men. "That's Bob Woods. He was victim number six. And that's Elmo Lynch, the Police Commissioner."

**1983**

It was late when they rolled back into the parking spot in front of their room; they'd checked off a long list of to-do items while they explored the area. Dean had some new clothes; turns out there wasn't much in the way of shopping in Clinton, so they'd driven along the river to Oak Ridge, the city known for its part in the creation of the atomic bomb. Despite Clint trying to get him to try on the worst of 80s fashion – really? A red leather jacket with chains and buckles? – Dean got some simple Levis and a few shirts. Not plaid, but he took the more conservative colors of oxfords and polo shirts to layer. No pink or red, just muted blues and white and black. Clint popped up the collar of the polo shirt and laughed at him, so Dean made him try on some really tight acid washed jeans then got distracted by just how snug they were across Clint's mighty fine ass, so he kicked Clint out to go find supplies at the hardware store.

Purchases in the trunk, they headed off to question the witnesses and family; they caught the wife of the second victim, Robert Johnson, arriving home from the real estate agency that bore her name. She had very little to add to her original statement; she'd found her husband upstairs in their bed when he failed to pick up their son from band practice. Tears flowed easily and quickly as she talked about it; four different times, Amanda Johnson mentioned that Robert had insisted it was okay if she work late because she had a line on a new listing, the Butcher house out on River Run, a real coup for her small agency. No one answered at the Holts, home of the second victim; Dean could see baby toys spread about the living room through the open curtains and papers on the desk in the corner. They found Kevin Holt at his parent's house; the high school history teacher who'd come back to his hometown to work and marry his sweetheart couldn't talk because he was knocked out from taking his mom's valium, so torn up over his wife's death that he was unable to function. The story the parents told was much the same; Donna had been home alone working on her paper for a college night class she was taking while Kevin was at work, the baby at a church Mother's Day Out program. The third victim, Margery Canaday, had been found by the maintenance man at the Second Baptist Church, lying on one of the benches in the new narthex she'd help build with a sizable gift. Andrew Martin liked to stop by the Wagon Wheel for a beer or two; Dean found that he liked the older man who'd worked for the Clinch River Electrical Authority for 35 years until a stray live wire used his body as a conduit and sent a massive electrical charge right through him. Surviving that had changed his life; he'd taken the disability and retired, spending his free time volunteering at the church and the local mission. Still, he could add no clues since Margery often came to that specific pew to pray, usually at least once a week, sometimes at odd hours when she was especially troubled; he'd chanced upon the body during his monthly check for burned out light bulbs in the chandeliers and assumed that Margery had died of a heart attack because of her known heart troubles.

"Thing is, aside from the same type of victim as in the future, everything else is different," Dean was saying as he waited for the waitress to bring his burger and fries. He couldn't believe that there was an honest-to-god Woolworth's, complete with a lunch counter and booths, a real five-and-dime store leftover from the fifties, just a few doors down from the J. C. Penny's in Oak Ridge. There was a glass pie counter filled with an assortment of baked goods including five different flavors of pie with a little sign advertising the bakery just down the street attached to the glass. He could see the fry cook working on his burger, had watched them put a potato through the slicer for his fries, and hand scoop the ice cream for his chocolate milkshake. "Always alone, in a place they belong, where they'd go unnoticed for some time. Whatever is behind this does its homework. Everyone seemed well-adjusted, normal even; last wraith we ran into liked her vics crazy with fear."

"Well, we know Morwen always works through others, right? The vamps in Pennsylvania, werewolves in D. C., so she's hooked up with wraiths here, maybe some that prefer happy juice instead of scared?" Clint suggested. "You said each vic made the wraith more powerful, like charging a battery. So this is a big battery with more than one cable running to jump start Morwen's way back in."

"Still feel like we're missing something. I'd like to go talk to the lead detective." The idea had been to go with a newspaper reporter cover, but Amanda Johnson had looked at Dean in his suit and immediately assumed F.B.I., and Dean did have his fake badge in his pocket, so he'd rolled with it. Nice thing was, he could get into the police's good graces faster this way. "Elmo Lynch. I can give him a call and see if he's still in his office; I've got his information here."

"Better have a dime for a payphone," Clint laughed.

"I can't wait for you to tell Tony that his Stark phones were useless. He did such a hard sell." Dean dropped the phone on the table and pushed the power button, mostly just to make fun of Tony's reliance upon technology. To his surprise, the phone not only lit up, but the little searching for a signal icon came on, circled for a few seconds and then showed three bars. "What the …?"

Clint took his own phone out and powered it up. Nothing happened. He tapped a few buttons and manually set it to search; it too, within seconds, was active. "Of course. There are cell phones now, so there are satellites. Tony's program is designed to piggy back off of whatever signal it can find. No internet but call me, see if it works."

Dean, skeptical as always, pressed the green phone symbol beside Clint's name; his phone played the opening bars of "Smoke on the Water" as Dean heard a ringing from his own. The people at the next table looked over at the sound, eyeing the little devices; they tucked them away in their pockets again.

"That one of those newfangled Japanese things?" The waitress asked as she sat their food down in front of them. Clint looked happily at his own roast beef sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes and Dean practically drooled over his burger. "My nephew wants one. A Walking Man or something."

"A Sony Walkman. Yeah. My brother just brought them from D.C. All the rage there," Clint offered.

"Don't know what's wrong with a nice LP anymore. Too many new gadgets," she shook her head and walked back to the counter. "Everything needs batteries nowadays."

"Should we tell her about Ipods?" Clint grinned.

"Hey, dude, I've still got cassette tapes in my baby, remember?" Dean bit into his burger. "But we do have a limited battery life without a recharger."

"Speak for yourself," Clint waved a little fob on his key ring from his pocket. "Stark instant charger. Solar powered. Tony rocks. But don't tell him that."

A phone call from the car netted them a meeting with Detective Lynch who turned out to be more politician than police man. He shook Dean's hand, all 'I'm so happy to work with the feds' but completely put out to see Dean standing before his very clean desk. Within moments, Dean realized the man was an idiot; he'd run into the type before, probably somebody in his family had enough pull to keep him moving up in the ranks without ever really doing anything. Man hadn't talked to anyone but the family members who found the bodies, wasn't ready to use the term 'serial' to describe the killings, and was pushing a drug angle for an explanation. So, useless. The only good that came from the whole forty-five minutes was an introduction to a young uniform officer who had been first on the scene for two of the three deaths; Marcus Delbert was green around the gills, but he rolled his eyes at Lynch's long rambling diatribe about the evils of drugs and passed his phone number to Dean as he left. Dean was pretty sure that Marcus was flirting with him as well, and the kid was cute, but too wet behind the ears for Dean's tastes; he was thinking more about sassy archer who happened to be waiting for him in a muscle car in the parking lot. And, damn, that was a hot thought. So he nodded to the cop, took the card, but his mind was already moving on.

Clint stopped at a liquor store to pick up some beer and a bottle of whiskey, and he'd gotten a few more things while Dean had been in with the detective. Dropping his new clothes and duffle on the far bed, Dean started opening packages, putting the garbage back into the shopping bag; Clint kicked off his shoes and turned on the T.V., propping himself up on a couple pillows on the other bed, a cold beer open on the night stand, watching Dean and ignoring Joan Collins in her massive shoulder pads launch into a cat fight with Linda Evans.

"Can't you find anything better to watch?" Dean nodded towards the TV.

"Hey, there are a grand total of four channels," Clint flipped through them. "Oh, look, _Facts of Life_. A movie with Valerie Harper. A PBS news show. Name your poison."

"Whatever." Dean didn't really care about the T.V. That uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades was the knock of his libido telling him they were alone in a room with beds. Like he needed a reminder.

"So Lynch is a jerk?" Clint tried to start a conversation.

"Grade A ass kisser working his way up the ladder." Dean finished with the clothes and tossed the duffle in the corner. "Guys like that piss me off. In a position to save people, and he only cares about the next job title."

"So, who's the good looking young guy that followed you to the door?"

Dean smirked a little. "Why? You want his number? I've got it somewhere."

"Uniforms don't do it for me, sorry." Clint shrugged. "More of a plaid shirt and denim jacket kind of guy, although there is something about a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up."

"Marcus said he wanted to help any way he could," Dean said, popping a top off of one of the beers and taking off his dress shoes. "I bet he knows a good place to get a drink."

"Got a drink right here." He waved his bottle towards Dean. "And when you decide you've done the dignity dance enough for the evening, my attention will be fully occupied with a very fine Winchester ass."

"Dignity dance?" Standing between the beds, Dean looked at Clint. Okay, maybe he did fight it a little bit; after all, he tended to think of himself as a leave-before-morning type, but he was way past that with Clint, so this was brand new territory for him.

"I get it, really. Nat gives me grief about my sex life all the time; the occasional bang then long spans with the hand. I'm trying something different; when we're together, I'm going to enjoy it and not waste time worrying about what to put on my Facebook status." He shrugged. "So, are you going to come over here or do you need me to tackle you?"

"Don't have a damn Facebook page," Dean groused, but sat his beer down, took the remote from Clint's hand and turned the T.V off; he walked over to the table where they'd left their various packages. "So, where's the pie?"

"What makes you think I got pie?" Clint sat up, shucked off his shirt and tossed it on the other bed. That move got Dean's attention.

"You always get pie. It's our thing." Dean dug through the various parcels. He found condoms and flavored gel, tossing them over on the bed. "If those are neon colors, I am not taking a pink one."

"Glow in the dark neon. And edible cherry." Clint grinned and unbuttoned his pants, shimmying them down his legs. Dean had found the white box, but his eyes were drawn to Clint who shed the last of his clothing and stretched back out on the bed. Snatching up the lube and opening it, Clint poured some on his fingers. He licked one tentatively, thought about, then curled his hand around his half-aroused cock and began to lazily stroke. "Not bad, actually. A little sweet."

"Dude." Dean shook his head. "Can't wait until I'm ready?"

"Eat your pie. I can take care of this myself." Clint grinned and set an easy pace with his hand, biting his lower lip; his eyes were on Dean, mischief dancing in the blue-grey depths.

"Go right ahead. I'll just be over here." Dean dragged a chair over for a better view, positioned it by the edge of the dresser and put the pie and the plastic fork down; he walked back and picked up his beer. He settled into the chair and forked up a big bite; two could play at this little game, he thought as he chewed and swallowed. From his vantage point, he could prop his foot on the corner of the bed and lean back. Rather than folding, Clint doubled down, gelling up his other hand and then planting a foot on the bed and reaching beneath his knee to slide his fingers down. He raised an eyebrow Dean's direction; Dean took another forkful and purposefully continued eating, ignoring the growing insistency of his own cock which was making its presence known against the zipper of his dress pants. Swallowing too soon at the sound of the ragged exhale Clint gave as one finger slipped past the tight muscle and worked in and out, Dean coughed and had to take a swig to clear his throat. He finished off the pie in two more bites, drained the beer, and sat the empty bottle down; Clint had added a second finger and was moaning now, hands working in tandem, picking up the pace as he grew more and more aroused.

"You done yet?" Clint gasped out, tilting his hips off the bed and thrusting into his hand. "Don't want to rush you or anything, but if you're going to be part of this …"

"I think you're enjoying the audience. Camera's working on my phone; maybe I should be taping it?" Dean palmed his own erection, sliding over the hardness, turned on by Clint laid out before him.

"Um," Clint breathed. "Done this a lot to the other video, you know? Bootlegged a copy before they destroyed it." He was arching up now, and he groaned as he spread himself out more with a third finger.

Dean was torn between a laugh and a groan of his own; his brain wanted to be embarrassed about the surveillance footage from the last time he and Clint were together – and he totally blamed Clint's voyeurism for some of the best sex he'd ever had – but his cock was taking charge and telling him to get his ass out of the chair and over to the bed right now. Standing, he unbuckled his belt, slid it out of the loops, and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

"Unbutton it, but leave it on. The tie too," Clint said, and Dean could see the lust in the other man's eyes. Hey, who was he to judge? He had his own kinks, for sure, and Clint very happily not only put up with them, but indulged him – thus the piece of pie. Dean would never eat pecan pie again without thinking of Clint. So he shed his pants and briefs, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened the tie, snagged the box of condoms and opened it as he climbed onto the bed and sat back onto his heels. Before he could open one of the foil packets, Clint caught the end of the tie and yanked, pulling Dean's mouth down to his. The kiss was one of lovers who knew each other, forceful, needy, open mouths and clashing tongues. Clint's tongue circled and tasted the sweetness of the pie; he rolled them over in one fast move, straddling Dean and bringing their cocks together, his slick with gel and pre-come, leaving streaks along Dean's skin.

Dean bucked up, not really trying to knock Clint off as much as assert himself; Clint was too good at taking the reins. Dean didn't really mind it, occasionally wondering why he wasn't more proactive, but then Clint sucked on his lower lip and Dean didn't really care. Light grazes with his mouth, Clint moved, licking first one then the other nipple, nipping them with his teeth before he headed for his primary target, a single minded mission to get Dean's cock in his mouth. It was a trait Dean admired about Clint – when he focused intently on a goal, nothing got in his way, and sure enough, Clint's tongue teased the flush head, tracing a circle and then a long line down and back up before his lips parted and slicked down over the hard length. Dean's brain went fuzzy – the man knew what he was doing and had some tricks that made little sparks explode behind Dean's eyes. For some odd reason, he found himself thinking of the way Clint ate pie, licking his fork and sucking the cherries into his mouth, and, damn, he was going to end this way too early if Clint didn't stop that thing he was doing sucking in his cheeks. Winding his hands into Clint's hair, Dean drew that amazing mouth off of his cock; Clint winked, knowing exactly how affected Dean was, and crawled back up until they were face to face.

"Audience participation is a good thing, eh?" Clint dipped down to drop a kiss on Dean's neck.

"I'll take the complete immersion experience," Dean said as he rolled them back over and fished for the packet he'd had earlier. "Not wasting time, right?"

Clint found it first and ripped it open, handing the condom to Dean to put on. "Right now is all we've got," he answered, his face gone serious, the moment suddenly something more. Easing himself into position, opening his legs as Dean slid between them, Clint ran his fingers down the side of Dean's face before he tangled them in his tie. For a second, there was an understanding that flashed between them as Dean pressed his cock into Clint, parting the muscle and slowly, inexorably filling him with his hard length. Sex was sex, and Dean had certainly had his share of mindless one-night, alcohol fueled encounters. He'd even had weekends, had easy morning sex, had dated and been in relationships, albeit short term ones. But this? Being inside Clint, having Clint inside of him, moving together like dance partners who'd been together for years – there were no barriers, nothing Dean had to hide or pretend wasn't there, no part of himself that Clint couldn't see or wouldn't understand The realization was immense, terrifying, amazing … so damn good and tight and worth every second of the doubt that assailed him.

"Hey. Stop thinking about it." Clint held Dean's face stead with his hands. "Feels good, right? Just go with that. The rest doesn't matter."

"Fucking A." Dean closed his eyes and shifted, rolling his hips in a figure eight. Clint groaned and jerked and Dean looked back down at him. "Almost as good as a piece of pie."

"Almost?" Clint wrinkled his nose then laughed. "You're driving here, so put your ass in gear and get on with it."

Dean pulled out and thrust back in, hard enough to scoot Clint an inch or two across the bedspread. "Better than most pie." He did it again, folding Clint's legs up and getting a better angle, earning a breathy 'fuck' from Clint . "Okay, maybe better than all but a couple pieces of pie I've had." He knew the second he found just the right trajectory and picked up with a relentless pace that shook the bedframe and slid them both precariously close to the edge as he drove in over and over again. "There was this pie I had once. This guy I met brought it, chocolate silk, and I got to lick it off his cock." One hand dropped over the side, and he fell flush against Clint; scrambling back, he dragged Clint's hips and kept on fucking into him as they raced to their climax. "Then there was this pie in D.C. … I think you might have heard of that one."

"God, Dean," Clint groaned as his body bowed up and his hips crashed back to meet Dean's thrusts. He was coiled tight, ready to go, and Dean curled a hand around Clint's aching cock and stroked; they were both so close. Clint clenched his muscles just seconds before Dean slammed home for the last time and they came together, rocking their bodies as they rode out their orgasms.

"Damn good pie." Dean's kiss was slow and easy, replacing jokes for the words he doubted he could ever say. "I'd drive a long ways to get a piece."

"Oh," Clint groaned. He pushed Dean off of him. "Get a piece. Really. I expect more from you, Winchester."

"Hey, my brain is blood-deprived at the moment. It's the best I can come up with." He winked. "I'll push a little harder next time. Suck it up and get better."

"Gah!" Clint sat up and got off the bed. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing here. I am not going out to get you more pie. Even if you keep that up."

"Dude, I can keep it up all night!" Dean laughed as Clint wandered into the small bathroom, leaving the door open as he wet a washrag and cleaned up. The banter did make him feel better – pie, sex, and stupid jokes usually did – but the feeling didn't go away. "We should really work on making some salt rounds."

"Yeah, we should," Clint said, nudging Dean's shoulder as he bent to pick up his underwear and jeans. "Or we can eat that other piece of pie I hid, drink some whiskey, and have a second round of 'can I fuck you senseless without talking about it' in thirty minutes or so. I vote for that option."

Dean watched as Clint piled the clothes on the second bed. Yeah, he could do that. Especially if this pie was cherry and Clint would share it with him.

**NOW**

Sam curled his fingers around the hilt of the silver knife, carefully tilting the mirror so he could see into the room beyond. The old barn looked empty, nothing but moldy hay spread on the dirt floor, but there were too many closed stalls and dark corners to know for sure. Marie had warned that a root cellar was underneath and a hayloft above, too many places to hide. Easing the wooden door open with his foot, he peered around the edge; nothing moved, no dust stirred, but he searched anyway.

Ninth in the list of past murder sites, Sam and Marie had spent the last 48 hours meticulously going over the old cases, looking for differences. Small things at first – Sam recognized Dean's Van Zant alias where it popped up now in the files, but no mention was made of Clint. For some odd reason, he could remember the original reports, maybe because he poured over them so many times recently. Bobby's theory was that as Dean and Clint interacted with people in the past, memories and details were shifting. An even bigger surprise was that Marie noticed as well; she'd called Sam late yesterday when she suddenly could remember her father talking to two guys that had to be the missing pair. That led to a second image of them in a pizza joint, sitting with a third man, talking. Unfortunately, the only thing Marie could remember was talking to her friends and deciding which of the three was the cutest – she'd been embarrassed to admit that. Since it was the day before her brother was killed and she had relived every single moment of the 24 hours so many times over, she started to believe the time travel idea.

"Clear!" She called from the loft. "From the state of the owl's nests up here, no one's been around here for a long time."

Sam opened the last stall; the root cellar door was against the wall, padlock old and rusty, cobwebs thick strings across it. He pulled on it and his hand came away dirty as rust fell onto the ground. No one had bothered it in ages. "Same here. It's a bust."

"I don't know what I thought we'd find." As Marie dropped off the last rung of the ladder, she leaned back against it, her exhaustion evident. "Almost five days ago, when your brother came in my office, I thought this was a break in the case … I should know better to get my hopes up again."

"Hey, Dean and Clint are still back there. We don't know what all they're going to change; no need to give up now," Sam said, as much to encourage himself as the weary detective. "Let's go back to the Commissioner again. We'll ask about those new notes in the files."

She laughed and rolled her shoulders, trying to work the knots out. "Bob will love that; he already thinks I'm obsessed and need therapy. This should seal the deal."

"Bob?" Sam asked, confused.

"Bob Woods. The Commissioner?" She eyed him closely. "Maybe we should call it a day and get some rest."

"The Commissioner is Elmo Lynch."

"No, Elmo died in …." She stopped, blinked, and then cursed. "Goddamnit, I can remember both ceremonies … what the fuck happened?"

"Let's go check the files." Sam breathed a quick silent prayer that Dean and Clint knew what they were doing back in 1983.

_**Pocona City, Oklahoma 1990**_

The smell of fresh blood was almost lost in the distinct scents of animals, popcorn, sweat, and vomit, but he honed in on the pain, the psychic destruction that had its signature. Behind the trailers, out of the lights that still lit the midway even though the trampled grass was the only reminder of the crowds from before, beyond the restless movements of the lions and the tiger, the stomping of the elephants, all of them sensing the violence that had occurred, he found him. Red covered his grey t-shirt, his hand clenched against the gaping wound in his stomach, face battered and bruised, leg twisted into an unnatural angle. Dropping to one knee, he sighed in sympathy for the pain the young man must be feeling; the mental anguish was more sharp and poignant that the physical hurts. And yet, deep and buried, the gift glinted, waiting.

"Don't," the young man whispered. "Don't go."

It took very little energy to stem the bleeding, just enough to keep him alive until the night watchman, already on his rounds, would find him, take him to the hospital. Through the last few years, he'd watched the young man grow up, seen the obstacles thrown in his way, the stubborn determination, the natural talent that developed despite everything. The mark on the boy had shown brightly, a magnet that drew creatures like him, both the good, the bad, and the indifferent; focal points, catalysts, heroes, whatever they called humans like the boy, were tantalizing for those who were addicted to power, who craved it. Even if he survived this betrayal, there would be another and another and another - challenges, crises, dangers, and villains. Necessary, but not a life to be wished upon anyone, despite the way human poets romanticized and turned men like this into legends and myths.

He stepped over the ring and left the tent, ensuring the flap was caught open to draw the guard's eye. If Morwen was to be stopped and this world saved, Clint Barton was in for much worse than his brother's knife in his belly.


	4. Sweet Dreams are Made of This

**1983**

"Dude, this is a little skeevy, don't you think?" Dean asked, passing over Clint's drink before he took his own. "Hanging out at the high school and watching teenage girls twirl flagpoles? Someone's going to call the cops on us." He took a big sip from his white Styrofoam cup as the young voices counted to sixteen over and over again, their tall aluminum poles dwarfing them with big white pieces of fabric that flapped as they spun. Dean had to admit the little black shorts they wore showed some of their very mature curves, not that he noticed those kinds of things. Really.

"As long as John David Oakes is grounded and sitting right there on the hill smoking his cigarette – or joint which is more likely – we're here." Clint just ignored Dean, settling back in the driver's seat. They'd had a long discussion, ahem, argument about Clint always driving this morning with some choice words about passengers and riding which had then devolved into a long series of really bad sex puns and ended in quick hand jobs in the front seat. Dean didn't count it as a loss since he spent most of the day annoying Clint with the most creative double entendres he could think of while they shadowed the next victim. J.D. as his family called him – Dean refused to think of the 14-year-old kid as 'Slick,' the name the losers he hung out with used – was treading on some very thin ice and it was a damn shame. He seemed like a good kid at heart, but he was lashing out at everyone around him. Classic signs of some sort of trauma, Dean had said while they ate lunch at a local drive-in with damn fine hot dogs and these things called frosted cokes that were a slushy mix of cola and ice cream. Something had happened to J.D. about six months ago, after his last year in junior high, and he'd gone from a normal pain-in-the-ass younger brother to a druggie down by the railroad tracks. His day had consisted of a very loud argument at home before he got in the car with his sister, skipping most of his classes to hide out behind the gym, and then trying to ditch Marie after school. Kid needed some therapy, obviously, but this was 1983 and all he had was a very earnest school counselor who had only too gladly talked to the nice F.B.I. agent about drugs at the school.

"Fine, but if one of those girls' dads show up with a shotgun, you're in the driver's seat. I'm just the passenger." Dean shifted to get more comfortable; they'd parked the car behind a corpse of trees across the creek. Clinton Senior High School was one of those failed 1960 experiments in equality of space or some such doubletalk shit they used to build really strange buildings. Made up of four round circles, inventively called 'pods,' each circle was cut into wedge shape pie piece classroom with an inner area for the teachers at the center. (Clint had already pinched Dean for using up his quota of _2001_ quotes – "open the pod bay doors, Hal" – so Dean had moved on to _Body Snatchers_ and lines about escape pods). Half of the circle was outside; the other half was connected with a long arcing hallway. The Gym was the biggest pod of the four and it backed up to a wooded area complete with a creek that ran around the whole campus. Cars had to drive across a bridge to get into the lower parking lot where the girls were practicing and then up a hill to enter the school's main doors in the center of the hallway. Most of the students and teachers had left already, the band practice scheduled to run until 6 p.m. From his vantage point, Dean could see the parking lot, the hill J.D. was sprawled on, and the trampled area just behind the gym only steps away from where his body would be found.

The rap on the window made him jump. Clint's pistol appeared in his hand before they recognized the face of Bill Oakes. Today he had on a black and white plaid shirt with mother of pearl snaps and a Bass master belt buckle, his John Deere cap shading his eyes. Dean rolled down the window after he shot an 'I-told-you-so' look at Clint.

"Well, now boys, I think maybe it's time you told me what you're really doing." Bill scratched his salt-n-pepper beard. He didn't appear to be armed, so Clint slid the pistol back onto the seat. Clint nodded to Dean's unspoken question.

"Yeah, you're right," Dean said as he opened the car door and got out. Clint came around, casually leaning his bow on the front fender.

"You ain't no regular divorced man and his brother, that's for sure. Been all over town asking questions. F.B.I., according to Nita down at the Richy Kreme." Bill crossed his arms and gave them the once over. He couldn't miss the guns or the silver knife that peaked out of its sheath on Dean's belt. Positioning himself so he had a good view of the school, Dean let Clint do the talking.

"My brother is an F.B.I. agent," he explained. "He thinks your son might be in danger."

Bill's eyes widened and then gave an exhausted sigh as his face fell. "Can't understand what's going on with that boy. Damn drugs, right? I told him he was getting in too deep but he doesn't listen to me anymore."

"Look, right now the most important thing is to keep him safe. What we need is for you to let us do our job," Clint said.

"You think he's dealing?" Bill shook his head in denial. "I know he's using, found the bag of weed myself in the barn, but I don't think he's selling."

"Clint. Heads up." Dean saw the man jump over the half wall that separated the school terrace from the grassy hill, easing down to where the young man sat. "Incoming."

"Aw, damn it. He's still on probation from the last arrest," Bill complained.

"That's Elmo Lynch, the detective," Dean told Clint. "Who else would he leave with, no questions asked?" They were already moving, in sync with each other, Dean breaking to the right towards the gym and Clint towards the parking lot.

"Bill, get the girls and get them in the building," Clint ordered.

"Wait, you think Elmo's the dealer?" Despite his protest, Bill stumbled along after Clint. Dean kept his eyes on the detective. It was a perfect cover for a monster, working the very same murders he'd committed. People trusted him, knew him – question was, Elmo had a family in town, so were they all monsters? Clearing the stream, Dean intercepted the man and the teenager, palming the compact mirror he had in his pocket; a wrath's real appearance would be revealed in the reflection.

"Detective, I thought that was you." He smiled and waved, as if bumping into the man on a street corner. "I've got a couple questions if you have a second."

Lynch paused, turning towards Dean, annoyance on his face. "Agent Van Zandt. What are you doing here?"

"Legwork." As nonchalantly as possible, Dean blocked the trail to the gym. "It's a matter of follow through, you know?"

Squinting at him, Lynch grew angry. "No, I don't know. Look, I'm in the middle of something." Grabbing J.D.'s arm, Lynch tried to move around Dean.

"What's the rush?" Dean asked. He tilted the mirror until he caught Lynch's reflection expecting to see a distorted face of a wraith, but there was nothing but a human man in the circle. Shit. "You going to threaten him into selling drugs for you?"

"I don't know what you're getting at …" Lynch started to say. With a quick move, J.D. jerked free and ran; Dean cursed and took off after him, Clint further behind. The teenager was fast, darting into the trees, and Dean saw a dark figure slide between two poplars.

"Lynch isn't it," Dean shouted.

"I see it," Clint shouted back. "Get the kid."

Glad to have tennis shoes instead of dress shoes, Dean took off after the sprinting boy, jumping a narrow part of the creek as the kid scrambled up a bank towards the road. He leaped and caught the edge of stone washed denim, pulling J. D. back down. They lost their footing and slid back, the teen rolling into the water and Dean sinking into the soft bank, mud squelching up to his ankles. Well, hell, there went his new shoes and jeans.

"You think it's going to be that easy? Hardly

Andrew Martin, church handyman, held J.D., a long spine protruding from his palm aimed just behind the boy's ear.

"Let the boy go and we can talk about this," Dean said. J.D.'s eyes were staring, not with fear, but with what looked more like pleasure. He sagged down, relaxing.

"Oh, please. Hunters. You have no clue, do you?" Martin pressed the spine in and a trickle of blood ran down J.D.'s neck.

"Why don't you give me one? Tell me how an alpha died and came back from Purgatory." Dean tried to get him talking.

"Oh, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn't it? Purgatory's not a drive-thru boy, can't just waltz in and out."

"Unless you have a little help from, say, an ancient bitch with a god complex?"

That surprised the Alpha. "How could you …?"

"No matter what she promised you, she's pure chaos. She'll kill you when she's got what she needs." He wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish except to gather as much information as possible.

"Stop!" Lynch caught up to them, his gun at the ready.

"Put that down, Lynch. You don't know what you're doing." Damn it. Just what they needed, someone blundering into the middle of this.

"Stay out of my way," Lynch shot back. "That kid's mine. I need him."

"Actually, Elmo," Martin said. "You're a real idiot." Pushing J.D. towards Dean, the wraith leapt at Lynch. Three shots rang out before the monster was on the cop, riding him down to the ground, spine sinking all the way into the cop's neck. Lynch cried out once then fell silent, body relaxing into the wraith's poison. Martin moaned as he fed, draining the precious fluid.

With only the slightest noise, the arrow drove the monster's body away from the cop, silver head sinking deep in his chest. Dean's knife slammed into Martin's back twice and the wraith screamed as Dean stomped on his hand, breaking off the long spine.

"What the hell?" Bill Oakes skidded to a stop; through the trees, Dean could see a gaggle of girls watching from the gym doors.

"Call an ambulance," Dean instructed Bill. Turning to the wraith, Dean checked, making sure he was gone.

"That was too easy," Clint muttered as he came up behind Dean. "I've got a bad feeling about this ..."

Grey smoke rose from the wraith's body, coalescing into a figure, half-formed. Dark haired and wearing a tunic, it grinned at Dean and then rushed towards the retreating back of Bill Oakes, knocking him down and dissolving into him. The man convulsed, eyes rolling back in his head; Dean got there in three steps and slashed across Bill's forearm with his knife. Blood flowed and steamed. Bill screamed as the mist poured back out of the wound, oozing onto Dean's foot. The second it touched bare skin, the most incredible feeling rushed over him. Not like sex, but those rare moments when warm arms cradled him, a body curled around his own, sleep stealing over him as their breathing synced in a long, slow, content slide into unconsciousness. Those quiet moments on the hood of the Impala, watching fireworks or drinking a beer, no words needed, just comfort in being alive one more day. So rare and fleeting, no doubt, no worry, just the best of all the moments of his life -true happiness.

"Dean?" Clint was shaking him, yelling from far away. "Fight it. You've got to fight it."

Clint's hands felt warm, bringing memories of a shared shower, easy strokes of fingertips, wet mouths … the pain slashed into the lethargy that griped him as the ghostly presence fled the silver's touch. Suddenly Dean was wet and muddy, and a new cut burned on his arm.

"What the fuck?" Dean demanded; he scrabbled away from Bill who sat on the ground, stunned. His vision was blurry, the wraith's poison still affecting him. He wanted to lean back into Clint and just close his eyes. "Where did it go?"

"There!" It was J.D., wet and shaking, who pointed to the roiling mist creeping along the ground, back towards the school. He'd stopped by his dad and was helping him up. Gone was the cocky attitude, replaced by a concerned son and brother. "Marie's back there."

Clint was up and moving, grabbing his bow and notching another silver arrow. Girls spilled out of the doors and were coming down the hill, Marie Oakes in the lead, running towards her father. Clint's arrow buried itself just in front of the mist, driving it to the left; a second arrow turned it away even more.

"Stop," Bill yelled, standing now and leaning on his son. "Go back in the school right now."

He was woozy and more than a little aroused, but Dean climbed up off the ground and pulled his pistol out. Clint kept the mist away from the girls, but he was going to run out of arrows soon and Dean had loaded the gun with silver bullets. Wasn't ideal, but better than nothing.

"Ladies, please. Back into the school." Dean crossed out of the trees, keeping a close eye on the wraith ghost mist thing. "I'm with the F. B. I." He got giggles and a few gasps as another arrow whizzed and thunked.

"That's my brother and my dad." Marie charged ahead despite the warning, but most of the others slowed and stopped. Some even retreated back into the building. Like a snake, the mist coiled and struck, lashing out at the teenager; she stumbled and fell, tumbling down the last of the incline and landing in a heap on the asphalt of the parking lot.

"Damn it," Dean cursed as he ran to the struggling form. Just as he got there, she pushed up and the black figure exploded outward with an unearthly scream, splattering into tiny atoms that blew away in the light breeze. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and took Dean's hand when he offered it.

"Rie?" Bill came up behind them, J.D. in tow. Marie went into her dad's arms, ignoring the red stains on her shirt from his sluggishly bleeding wound, and then reached out to bring her brother into the hug.

"What the fuck was that?" Clint asked, tucking his arrows back into the quiver. An easy hand on Dean's back for a quick touch and Dean got the message.

"You're the one who said it was too easy," Dean replied. He answered with a bump backwards into Clint; he wasn't okay, but he could fake it while the echoes of the wraith's bliss rippled through him.

**NOW**

"We've got another one," the voice on the phone informed Sam. Rubbing his eyes, he looked blearily at the old digital clock on the night stand. 5:27 a.m. He'd been asleep a little over three hours. Looked like that would have to be enough. "Off of Route 61. I'll send you the directions."

"On my way." Sam sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his shoes. He got the location, grabbed a shirt that didn't smell that bad and the loaded duffle he kept by the door as he left the room. The drive was only about 15 minutes, but it took him out into the countryside, down a winding road that wasn't even two lanes wide. The black and white with its lights on at the end of the gravel road was the only reason he turned at the right spot, the Impala rumbling as he inched along the two ruts that seemed to climb up the side of a hill and drop off. Just as he thought there was nowhere to go, the road curved and he saw a house built of river rock with hewn logs as posts that held up the large deck tucked into the hill side overlooking the valley. He pulled into the parking area around the detached barn and headed not towards the house, but the smaller side path where a uniform stood guard. In the last two weeks, Sam had gotten to know most of the small police force; the rookie cop nodded and waved Sam on through the tangle of brambles that caught on his jacket. Just a short distance down the path, he came upon an old house, obviously abandoned and dilapidated, the porch sagging, only bits of cracked glass in the window.

"Sam, over here." The dark haired man in a rumpled blue suit waved from the gaping doorway. Sam ducked his head and entered the ramshackle old house. On the floor was the body of a teenage girl in her t-shirt, tight jeans and Ugg boots, eyes wide open in fear, body set in rigor, mouth open in a scream. "Just like the others, only a bigger gap of time between this and the last kill. Something must have happened to knock him off his schedule."

Sam looked around at the three others in the room – two uniforms at the doorway and Billie Von Hardin, the M.E. That was strange; someone was missing. "Where's Marie?" he asked.

The man looked up at him quizzically. "Who?"

"Marie. She's lead on this case." Even as he said it, he realized that this new person looked a lot like Marie – younger, male, but same facial features, same brown, curly hair. "Oh my God. You're J. D."

"Yeah, you know that. We've been working on this since …" J. D. Oakes, Anderson County detective, trailed off as understanding dawned in his eyes. He tugged on Sam's sleeve. "Outside."

"Marie's your sister." Sam stated as soon as they got out of earshot. "Where is she? Is she …"

"She's probably home asleep." J. D. talked over him. "Your brother and Clint? You think they changed something? Marie. A detective. She'll find that funny considering she writes mystery novels for a living." J.D. turned serious, flipping open a small notebook and working backwards. "Lynch/Woods, time gaps, change in the order of victims … what's changed now?"

"Wait, you remember all that?" The problem, of course, was that J. D. was alive; how exactly to break the news that he should be dead was a more delicate matter.

"We've been through this before. My obsession with this case since the damn thing almost got me years ago overrides the changes." Now he was the one who looked confused. Actually, it made sense. If Clint and Dean had stopped the wraith from killing J. D., that would have made a big impression on the teenager. Marie would never have become a detective to avenge her brother's death, leaving J. D. to follow that path instead.

J. D.'s phone rang. He looked at the display and his eyebrows went up as he answered. "Marie? What are you doing up?" Dark brown eyes flicked up to Sam as he listened. "You want what? Why?" An eye roll and a sigh of a brother used to his older sister's foibles. "Fine. Okay. Here." He held the phone out to Sam. "She wants to talk to you."

"Marie." He took the phone and answered.

"So I wake up from the strangest dream where I'm married with two kids and have this overwhelming urge to call you but then I can't remember your number and Barry started snoring and I don't know which life was a dream anymore." She gave a strangled little laugh. "My husband is staring at me right now like I'm crazy, probably contemplating calling the paddy wagon to come get me."

"You're not crazy," Sam assured her. "Look, I need to talk to both you and your brother. Alone. Figure out what the new timeline is."

"Me and my brother. Oh God. You don't know how that makes me feel to hear those words. And at the same time, I'm still mad at him for forgetting my birthday last year." She was almost crying; he could hear it in her voice. "Come over after 7:30 a.m. I'm up now. Barry's got to go to work and the kids leave for school at 7:10. Sam. I have kids."

"Yeah, you do. Give them an extra hug this morning. We'll be there soon." Sam hung up and passed the phone back.

"Something tells me we have a lot to talk about," J. D. said.

**1983**

Clint swirled the whiskey in his glass as he sat at the dining room table, Dean next to him, nursing his own drink. They'd managed the scene as best they could, wrangling teenage girls and cleaning Bill and Dean's wounds, holding the cuts together with butterfly bandages. The EMTs who arrived took Lynch to Oak Ridge hospital, talking of comas and possible brain damage. Too many questions were left unanswered; there was no hiding their presence, not with all the witnesses. Fortunately, Dean's F. B. I. cover held, and they were able to spin a tale that made sense. If the girls had seen a black cloud around Marie as she tumbled down the hill in her haste to get to her father, well, that was an understandable mistake for scared kids to make.

Finally, they'd escaped the police station and made their way back to Bill's house, a lovely old farmhouse with freshly painted white siding and black shutters. Florence, his wife, had barbeque from a local joint ready for all of them. A red head, Flo was a hair dresser and decked in sensible nurse shoes, khaki pants and a floral shirt that covered her generous curves. Fortunately, she also had a sense of humor, so happy to have J.D. and Marie home safe that they could have said they were aliens and she wouldn't have cared. The first rounds of beers were replaced with whiskey as the food disappeared and the conversation turned to the afternoon's events.

"So Andy Martin? Doesn't make sense. I've known him my whole life, went to school together. He was always helping people, even back then. Married his childhood sweetheart Jessie right after high school. Was the Den Leader of the Boy Scout Troop." Bill pushed the last bit of baked beans over to J.D.; the boy grimaced and Clint caught the look.

"Does that mean his son and daughter are also … what did you call them? Wraiths?" Flo asked. She was watching both kids, a worry line between her eyes.

"I don't think so." Dean finished off his drink, his second glass. Clint was a little worried about him; he'd been acting strangely ever since the wraith had touched him. Bill, J.D. and Marie seemed to have shaken off the effects, but not Dean. He was too quiet, dropping into distraction easily and zoning out on conversations. He'd told the cops he was just tired from pulling a long night of work - but he didn't even glance at Clint when he'd said it, that mischievous sparkle Clint expected missing from his eyes.

"But silver hurts it? Like werewolves?" J.D. asked around a mouthful of his third sandwich, a bit of hero worship in his eyes as he looked at Dean. "That's why it left Dad after you slashed his arm."

"Can we not talk about that at the table? Let's just be glad you're all okay." Flo wrinkled her nose, her blue eyes glancing at the bandage on her husband's arm.

"Mom, I'm not a kid anymore." J.D. protested. "I'm glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead, he deserved it."

"John David!" Flo was aghast.

"No, Flo, let him be," Bill said, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "Man was trying to kill our son. I have to agree."

"If it helps, he wasn't Andrew Martin anymore, not since his accident, anyway. That's probably when the wraith took over," Dean offered.

"Doesn't answer why the thing left Rie." J.D. looked at his sister. "Just exploded out of her like she tasted bad or something."

"Gee, thanks, Davey. Maybe I was just too totally awesome?" Marie shot back, but she was smiling. "How about this?" She pulled a silver chain out from under her t-shirt; at the end dangled a heavy silver medallion, edges worn down and a patina covering the smooth finish.

His stomach plummeted; Clint had seen a similar symbol before, around the necks of some very nasty customers who tried to kill them in Pennsylvania. Two crescent moons and a full moon, only this time the slivers of circles were inside the full one rather than facing away. Dean nudged his leg under the table; he recognized it as well.

"That was my grandmother's," Flo provided without being asked. "Been in the family for years. She gave it to Marie just before she passed; said it was meant for her. Granny was little touched." The last was said as an apology.

"Do you know where it came from?" Dean leaned over Clint to look closer, his hand dropping on Clint's leg as he braced himself. A little spark jumped between palm and thigh; Dean cut a quick look at Clint and pulled his hand away.

"Granddad probably bought it at a second hand store; he was a notorious liar, had a woman in every town along his sales route," Flo laughed. "But Granny always said it was a talisman to give women the power to be whatever they wanted. Silly, but there are a lot of Grimes women who did amazing things. There's an explorer, the first woman representative from Tennessee, and a famous writer in the family. My aunt went to the Olympics back in '52 and won a bronze medal. And Granny's moonshine was famous; she made enough money to put her brothers and sisters through school selling the stuff. Revenuers never suspected a woman of running shine."

"May I?" Clint asked as he reached for the necklace to examine it closely. Marie tugged the chain over her head and dropped it into his outstretched palm. The metal was warm from Marie's skin, and for a second, it lay still in the center of his hand, chain wrapped around his fingers.

A wave of lightning blew up his arm, sparks chasing along his muscles to reach his shoulder and spread in a flash. Not time to breath, his heart contracted, a tight band settling across his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. Discharge danced in front of his eyes, crackling along his jaw and into his head. He jolted as his chair fell over backwards, and he went down with it, body seizing up. Suddenly, the power coalesced in the center of his chest around the warm point where Dean's hand was braced and Clint's left hand that still clutched the medal. Forcing his eyes to focus, he could see the sparks rolling up Dean's arms where they were connected by touch.

"Clint!" As fast as it started, it was over. Dean was leaning over him, and his hand was open, the necklace pooled on the floor where it had fallen. Opening his mouth, Clint dragged in a full breath of air, filling his lungs and releasing it, slowing his galloping heart. "You still there?"

"Well, that was shocking," he managed to say. Yeah, it was a bad one, but his brain was still a little scrambled. Dean smacked him in the arm then helped him get up.

"That's all you've got? You scared the hell out of me." Dean righted the chair and Clint gratefully sat back down.

"Careful, I charge extra for better puns." His hands were shaking; he clenched his fingers and he curled them open then closed again. "Didn't expect that."

J.D had left his own seat during the commotion. Now he bent down to pick up the necklace.

"Hey, don't touch …" Dean started to warn him but the boy casually coiled the chain and medallion in his palm and handed it back to his sister.

"What just happened?" Bill asked. The whole family was wide-eyed, staring at Clint.

"Seems Granny Grimes was right; this is a magical talisman and, for some reason, it likes Clint," Dean explained.

"Just damn attractive, I guess," Clint winked at Marie who actually blushed at that pun. Dean huffed, but Clint earned a ghost of a smile for that attempt, the best he'd gotten since the afternoon.

**NOW**

"You're saying I died? That thing got me?" J.D. curled his hand around his coffee mug, trying to understand. "But I remember meeting Dean and Clint then, time travel, everything. How can I know that if I was dead?"

"Because in this time line, you were the one who became obsessed with finding the wraith." Sam was trying to wrap his own brain around it all. By saving J.D., Dean and Clint had made drastic changes. Now, there were nine dead bodies in 1983, the first three the same peaceful victims both Sam and Marie remembered, but the rest, new victims dying in abject terror.

"And Marie went to college, wrote bestselling books, got married, and had kids." A sip of coffee, and the detective looked at his sister for help. "God, sis, all those years chasing this thing and to just wake up in a different world?"

"It's sort of fuzzy, to tell the truth, slipping away. The details, anyway. The big plot points are still there, but it's like one of my novels now." This Marie Oakes was different than the one Sam had first met; she was slimmer, happier, moving with purpose around the kitchen in her renovated farmhouse, cleaning up breakfast dishes. As she paused, deep in thought, her fingers found the silver necklace around her neck and absently rubbed it, obviously an ingrained habit. "What's clear is Dean and Clint sitting right in there at the dining room table, telling us all about the wraith. You remember, Davey?"

"Andrew Martin that bastard. Sick fucker." The venom in J.D.'s voice was strong. He shivered at the thought. "Honestly, though, Dean saved me from more than just Martin – he saved me from myself. I was pretty intent on destroying my life back then. I still wished Martin had died in that accident and saved all of us the trouble."

"Accident?" Sam asked, trying to clarify the details of the new events.

"Martin was almost electrocuted; doctors were surprised he survived. Dean thought that was when the wraith got hold of him, or his body, we don't know for sure," J.D. provided. "Between the accident and when he tried to kill me, he was my Boy Scout leader." There was something there, Sam could tell, but it was J.D.'s secret to keep, so he left it alone.

"So there was a connection between you and him. And Canady was found at the church, right?" Sam asked. He scrolled through the files on his tablet to pull up the details. "Damn. He's the one who found her. That leaves Johnson and Holt."

"Bob Johnson was a Scout leader of another troop." J.D. said. "I wanted to transfer but the troop was full."

"The Holts are still members of the church. There's been a Holt on the deacon board there for years." Marie sat down her full cup and grabbed a laptop from the counter, opening it and sitting at the table to type up notes. "The six after that are different; you think the wraith used the information of the person it inhabited to choose victims?"

"Makes sense. But then there's the addition of the violence. When Martin had me, I felt really good, like the most amazing high. I wasn't scared at all, didn't want it to end," J.D. added to the theory. "The later victims were terrified before they died."

"And the multiple entry points on the neck weren't there anymore. Always figured either there were more than one of the bastards at those first three kills or he fed off of them at different times. Whatever it was, it stopped when Martin did." J.D. flipped through some notes, rereading the current case files. "Okay, at least we have somewhere to start. Find a commonality between the current victims, the way the wraith is choosing them …"

"… include the characteristics of the next victims based upon the profile of the original nine …" Marie was typing as they tossed ideas back and forth.

"… six or nine? Why were there six, then nine? What if the first three were part of a set and then … yes, look! Four, five, six, and seven match the same profiles. He started over again. Must be significant somehow …" J.D.'s pen was flying as he drew circles and connected the dots.

"… as is the way he kills them. Could the change have anything to do with the new body? If I were writing it, I'd make it so the wraith took on some of the person's characteristics. Martin was seen as a nice person …" Marie mused out loud.

"… motherfucking son-of-a …" J.D. muttered underneath her.

"… he volunteered and helped out in a lot of different ways. So maybe the wraith feeds off of good feelings because of that. And then he hops over into someone mean and nasty …" Marie kept going

"… and the kills get messy and violent." Sam jumped in this time, getting into the flow of things. "Yeah, it could work. So it would be someone who was here 20 years ago and is still around …"

"… or it jumped again into another nasty bastard when that person died." J.D. finished the thought. "Still, this is small town. I think we can brainstorm a list of people who fit the bill: violent, mean, might have had an accident or something at some point, connect to the vics. Hey, it's more than we had before." He slapped Sam on the back, grinning as he flipped his notebook closed. "I've got a case to work on, so I better get back to the station. Sam?"

"You're welcome to stay here," Marie offered. "This is my prime writing time while the kids are in school. Johnny has band practice after school and Jules has drama club so they won't be home until after 5 p.m. Place is ours. We can set up a murder board in my office."

For the first time in a long while, Sam felt like they were making progress, that they were one step closer to figuring this out. "That sounds great. Coffee's better here than the station."

**1983**

"Look, you boys are welcome to stay here," Bill offered as they passed through the foyer on their way to the side door where they'd parked the car. A beautiful set of wooden stairs curved gracefully upwards to the second floor, the basement door tucked under them. Across from the stairs, the front door was in a darker alcove, beveled glass insert giving a view of the street where headlights came and went in the distance. "Got plenty of room in this old drafty place. Better than a hotel."

Dean glanced over at Clint. He had that look on his face, the one that said they had some talking to do before the night was over. As stubborn as he was, Clint was not going to let this go until he got Dean to spill it all.

"Thanks, but we'll be coming and going at odd hours so it's best we just stay where we are." Dean shook the man's outstretched hand. "Sorry again about the whole slicing you with a knife thing."

"Better that than being shoved out of my own body," Bill said with a laugh. "And that was a strange statement I never thought would be coming out of my mouth."

The ghostly figure materialized right behind Clint, only her torso visible, bottom half dissolving into a white mist. From her clothing and hair style, Dean would guess she was from the late to mid Nineteenth Century, her hair pulled back in a loose bun and her calico dress buttoned all the way up to her neck.

"Clint. Behind you," Dean warned. Without looking back, Clint took two steps forward then turned. The woman stayed where she was, bobbing gently up and down.

"Oh, that's Aunt Agatha." Bill's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. "Flo's great-great-great aunt. This is her family's old house. Been a Grimes in this house since 1782."

"You have a resident ghost?" Dean asked. From his experience, ghosts who lingered were very dangerous.

"A couple actually. Agatha usually doesn't show up unless something's happened to rile her. I guess all this talk of the wraith has upset her. She takes family seriously." Bill didn't move, even when Agatha floated closer to Clint, following him. "Or maybe it's what happened to you."

Agatha raised her hand and reached for Clint. "Dean?" he asked, uncertain and edging backwards.

"I don't think you should let her …" Dean began. Fast as a will-o-the-wisp, Agatha slipped into Clint, disappearing inside his body. He froze, jiggled some, and then looked over at Bill and Dean.

"Oh, my, I am sorry," he said. Well, it was Clint's voice, but the phrasing and the tone were very different. He wiggled a little as if he clothes were just a bit too tight. "This is very inappropriate."

"Get out of him," Dean growled. Bill stood with his mouth hanging open.

"William, dear, you need to protect Marie. Don't let her take that necklace off ever again. And I will leave Clinton for you, Dean, don't worry." Clint smiled, but it wasn't his smile. Even the way he held himself was more feminine. For a moment, he/she seemed confused, his/her eyes wandering around the room.

"Agatha?" Dean prompted.

"Oh, yes! I remember. The bow. She'll need the bow to finish her spell. The sacrifices are only enough to get her here." Clint/Agatha answered. "But the bow isn't the bow anymore. He knows where it went."

"Spell?" Bill found his voice to ask.

"I was a witch, dear. Not a follower of Lilith, mind you. So glad that bitch is gone."

Bill's eyes opened wide in surprise at Clint/Agatha's words. A mist formed around Clint, Agatha losing contact, fading out of Clint's eyes.

"Wait, who knows? Who is he?" Dean asked.

She pulled back long enough to whisper one word.

"Hyperion."

And then she was gone and Clint dropped to the floor.


	5. Never Gonna Let You Go

**1983**

Clint had the strangest urge to pick up some needles and thread; many of Agatha's memories were still floating around in his head. Having someone else inside his skin, a dead woman specifically, wasn't the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him, though. He'd been controlled by Loki, thrust into alternate universes, and even turned into a dog one time. That memory wasn't bad, considering where he'd ended up during a week of peeing with a leg up and drinking from a bowl. Fortunately, the random images and memories were fading even as Clint shut the door to their hotel room behind him. No more knowing how to can grape jelly or plait hair. He could turn his attention back to the case and, more importantly, figure out what was going on in Dean's head. Kicking off his shoes, he poured a drink, sat down, and waited. Dean took his shoes and socks off and left them in the corner, both of them crusted with dried mud from the creek bank. A few minutes in the bathroom, and Dean came back out, slid off his jeans and tossed them with the other clothes. Without speaking, he walked over and slipped a hand around Clint's neck, bending down to bring their lips together for a soft kiss. Of all the outcomes Clint had posited for the way this evening was going to go, this was definitely not one of them. Dean Winchester, dropping down to kneel between his legs, kissing him like they were brand new lovers with easy, gentle brushes of lips? Not on his radar.

"Um, should I ask?" Clint got a few words out when Dean broke contact and sat back on his heels, running his thumbs down the side of Clint's face, tracing along his jaw. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"Later." Dean slid his thumb across Clint's bottom lip, eyes fixed on the drag of skin. He stopped at the corner, thumb hanging as he splayed the rest of his hand, fingers slipping into Clint's hair and down his neck. Leaning in, his lips brushed the other corner then nipped along the curve of the lower lip, sucking on it before running his tongue along the seam. Clint parted his lips and drew in a little breath, tendrils of heat lingering where Dean's mouth touched.

"I can wait." Clint relaxed, closed his eyes and focused his attention on the points of connection: warm palm on his neck, moist lips easing his mouth open, and Dean's hips against his knees. Rather than increase the pressure of the kiss, Dean eased off and trailed along Clint's jaw line, using his hand to tilt Clint's head back, baring his neck to teasing caresses of lips and tongue in the hollows and along the ridge of muscle. It was an onslaught, make no mistake, but undemanding and leisurely, a thousand tiny nibbles whose sum was more than their parts. Enticing and hot as hell, Clint felt like he was being drawn out of his body with each touch. When Dean slid his other hand under the edge of his shirt, Clint moaned at the strokes of fingertips against his skin. He lost track of time, unsure how long they stayed there, Dean's mouth roving behind Clint's ear, switching sides, returning to his mouth. His shirt slipped up and Dean's fingers drew patterns across his abs.

"Up," Dean said. He pulled Clint with him. "Let's move this somewhere more comfortable." Dean's shirt went over his head then he caught the edge of Clint's and helped remove it. Clint's jeans were next; Dean drained the whiskey in Clint's glass before he tugged him down on the bed, nothing but the cotton of their briefs between them. Drawing him close, Dean wrapped his arms around Clint, both of them on their sides, facing each other, and the kissing started again, lengthy and languid. Dean's hands roamed in continuous caresses, and Clint gave in to the slow burn, riding the tension building in his chest. Strong arms held him, hands calloused from guns traced his muscles, stubble scratched his neck, and he felt like he was floating in limbo, no rush, no hurry. As his cock grew harder, he tucked the last of his worry away; Dean would tell him what was up in his own time and, damn if this wasn't erotic … yeah, no, he wasn't going with romantic, so he'd say tender … and something he never knew he wanted until this very second.

He had his own desires to fulfill, free to run his hands anywhere; following the line of Dean's hip, Clint cupped Dean's ass, slipping his leg between Dean's and snuggling his thigh against the weight of Dean's cock. The friction of Clint's movement made both of them moan. Tangling his hand into Dean's hair, Clint changed the kiss, tongue delving into Dean's mouth; Dean rubbed down against the thigh in response. After more grazes of lips and sliding of bodies, Dean shifted, bringing their cocks in line and grinding them together through the cotton fabric, keeping the same lazy pace as before. The maddening slowness was starting to get to Clint; by the clock on the end table, they'd been kissing for over forty-five minutes, and he was pretty sure he'd hit his limit of sweet and gentle. Bucking into Dean, he thrust his hips and groaned into Dean's mouth.

"Thinking about going somewhere with this?" he asked. Dean grinned and rolled over, reaching for the lube and condoms in the drawer and tossing them to Clint.

"Going anywhere you want."

He thought about it for a moment, Dean so obviously needed this and Clint could definitely take care of him, wanted to do it in fact. That wraith had gotten in his head, messed around, and Clint certainly understood how that felt, so he would take his time, open Dean up real slow and thorough. They wiggled out of their underwear and Clint tugged Dean back on his side, wiggling an arm under Dean's chest and hooking Dean's leg over his own. With slick fingers, he traced along Dean's spine, between his cheeks, and circled him, swallowing the gasp of pleasure with his mouth, coaxing out more moans with his tongue tracing along the sensitive lines of Dean's ear. Now it was Clint who was in no rush, settling a torturously slow pace of in and out, stretch and stroke that left lots of room to lick and nuzzle and bite along Dean's shoulder and across his chest. One finger turned to two and Clint found the perfect spot to make Dean jump and moan, so he did, repeatedly, pressing and dragging and rubbing just to feel the heat of Dean's exhales on his skin as Dean buried his face into the crook of his neck. The third finger took Dean to the edge, his cock hard against Clint's hipbone, and still Dean didn't make any demands, just let Clint draw this out to the inevitable conclusion. Knowing he could take Dean over at any second, without any more than this, was a heady feeling. Clint stopped shy of thinking how he could spend the rest of his life like this, coming back to this man who made him laugh, challenged him, gave him grief over his foibles, made him so damn horny, and engaged in every freakin' kink Clint could come up with … well that was admitting Dean Winchester might be more than a buddy or partner or casual lover and that complicated matters now, didn't it?

He didn't want to be on top or on bottom, Clint realized, so he nudged Dean to roll over on his other side, facing the wall, and spooned up behind him after rolling the condom on. Dean got the idea and bent his top leg, leaning slightly forward to balance on his knee, so Clint could rub his cock between Dean's legs before he pushed into the tight heat. Chest to Dean's back, Clint could hold on, run his hands down the long length of Dean's body to stroke his cock, and lick a stripe up the side of Dean's neck all at the same time.

"This what you want?" He asked, lips on the ticklish spot behind Dean's ear. He eased back out and slid back in, nice and slow. "Me all around you. Holding you. Stroking you. Kissing you. Inside you." All the way out except for the very tip, Clint paused there until Dean arched his back and shifted his hips, forcing Clint a little deeper.

"Stop teasing," he bitched in a breathy moan that made Clint smile.

"I got the slow and steady memo," Clint replied, adding a little twist of his wrist as he circled the head of Dean's cock.

"About that …" Dean's arm crossed over Clint's and grabbed his ass, urging him on. "Change of plans."

Clint pushed back in and add a snap of his hips just at the last, earning a satisfied sigh from Dean. "Like that?"

"Yeah." Dean rocked back and circled his hips. "That's getting close. Keep working on it."

"Close?" Out and back in, a fast thrust and a harder snap, and Dean bit his lip as he groaned. "Oh, I'll work something, that's for sure."

Dean turned his head, caught Clint's mouth in a searing kiss, and there was no more talking. Pushing Dean forward, Clint found the perfect angle to hit his target every time, wringing a litany of curses and gasps and even a few sobs that he swallowed down as he plundered Dean's mouth. Despite the long build up, Clint held back and it was Dean who came first, spilling over Clint's fingers as he braced himself on the bed to keep from sliding over the side. It was easy for Clint to finish, the muscles spasming around his cock pulling him over into his own orgasm within a few more thrusts. Making no move to leave the bed, Dean grabbed Clint's messy hand and tucked it under his own, pressed against his stomach. Clint's weight was partially forward, covering Dean, but when he slipped out and started to roll back, Dean stopped him, catching one of Clint's feet and tangling it with his own.

"This, this moment. That was what it was like." Dean explained. "Not sex, per se, but the feeling afterwards when you're warm and satisfied and drowsy … sated. Nothing like a djinn; they give you your perfect world but it's all an illusion while they feed off of you. No, this was memories of … happiness. Those few seconds when you have no worries, when you feel safe and loved and content."

"Doesn't sound all that bad, honestly." Clint knew Dean was talking about the wraith; all the victims had died peacefully. Happy made sense.

"Not bad at all. That was the problem. Kind of like seeing your life flash before your eyes, only it was a very short flick." Dean tried to laugh it off, but the two of them were alike in so many ways that it was eerie, and Clint knew exactly what Dean was saying. They were both the type of man who was sure they didn't deserve anything good or that they'd end up destroying it.

"Alright, I'm calling horseshit here." Lifting on one elbow, Clint looked down at Dean and decided, screw it. If he fucked this up, he fucked it up. "Truth is, we're the ones who don't let ourselves be happy." The edge of Dean's lips curled up just a bit and he cocked one eyebrow at Clint, waiting to see where he was headed. "For example, instead of admitting I wouldn't mind coming off a crapfest of a job knowing there was whiskey, a greasy burger, a piece of pie and good company waiting for me with a possibility of ending the evening buried balls deep in your very fine ass, I just won't say anything. Instead of waking up from that blue eyes and ice dream with you half on top of me, able to sync my breathing to yours and slow down my heart rate to get back to sleep, I'll wake up all alone and lay there staring at the ceiling because that's for the best, right? 'Cause heaven forbid I say anything out loud like 'hey, Dean, I really like what we're doing' or 'hey, want to do this more often 'because it makes me happy?'."

Dean stared for a moment, his mouth opening with a few false starts before he finally replied. "Balls deep? That's what you go with?" He broke out into a goofy grin. "I mean, I'll take the fine ass because, hell yeah, that's true, but really?"

"Excuse me, but I was being all heartfelt and everything, and you fixate on that?" Clint swatted Dean's ass, worry evaporating. "Think you could do better?"

"I'll give you the burger and the pie – especially the pie. The dream, however, would be fire and screams, and I'd go with the classic fucking your brains out, preferably in the backseat of the Impala." He was chuckling now, pushing away and rolling off the bed, reaching a hand down for Clint. "I'm covered in dried jazz and you've still got a used condom on. I think a shower's in order. We can discuss the correct wording once we're clean. But I'm going to come on out on top."

"Dream on, Dean. Dream on."

**NOW**

The place was a dive, just the kind of joint Dean would love. Wood paneling on the walls, neon beer signs, red checkered plastic tablecloths. Sam had to circle the block three times to find a parking spot for the Impala near the hidden white building in a strange little strip mall two streets off the main drag in Oak Ridge. Obviously, Friday at 5:30 pm was a bad time to hit this place; people were spilling outside, waiting for some of the vinyl seats to be freed up. Fortunately, Sam spotted the wave of the man's hand and managed to wind his way through the throng of people to one of the furthest most table, back against the wall.

"Sam, glad you could make it," Phil Coulson said, standing up so Sam could maneuver his way past a group of people dressed in red football jerseys and the metal backs of the eight chairs haphazardly crammed around a table for four. Coulson had forgone the secret agent look Sam had seen him in the last time they'd met, opting for a pair of casual slacks and a long sleeve blue button down with a burgundy sweater. But it was the two women at the table that caught Sam's attention. Carol Danvers looked as gorgeous as always – don't think about her naked, handcuffed to the bed, screaming his name as she came … too late – even if she had dark circles under her eyes. In her preferred color red, she looked like someone ready for a football game, jeans and sweater with a smart pair of black boots, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sam wasn't exactly sure what to do next. It had been a while since they'd seen each other in person, even if they'd managed to keep texting and in contact despite a heavy workload on both their parts. Fortunately, Carol handled the situation by wrapping her arms around Sam and dropping a far from friendly kiss on the corner of his lips.

"Sam," she breathed, her blue eyes widened, and, yeah, the spark was still there. He was getting hard while standing this close to her. "Sorry I missed your message. Cell service sucks in Wakanda." She stepped away, reluctantly, and turned to the woman seated next to her. "Sam, this is Natasha. Natasha, this is Sam."

The redhead looked Sam over, weighing and judging him in one fast glance, and he got absolutely no read on her at all. She was gorgeous – like drop dead, sexy as hell, green eyes that saw right through you gorgeous – and her red hair curled perfectly as it spilled down her back and over her black leather jacket. With a quirk of her red lipstick covered lips, she pulled a 20 dollar bill out of her back pocket and passed it over to Coulson who made it disappear.

"Sam. Nice to meet you," she offered her hand, but no explanation. "Sit. We have a lot to talk about."

"Okay, what was that?" Carol demanded as Sam settled into his chair. A harried teenaged waitress carried over two large platters of pizza, piping hot, and dropped them off along with tiny paper plates and puny little plastic forks and knives.

"What something to drink?" the girl asked in Sam's general direction.

"Beer? In a bottle. Anything local." He said and got a quick nod before she ran off.

"Hope you don't mind but we went ahead and ordered. Didn't realize the first game of the season was tonight, so this place is going to get even more crowded." Phil snagged the first piece of the loaded pie; Carol dived for the pepperoni, taking two for herself. Looked like it was every man for himself, so Sam took one of each, but not before Natasha had her own two, each on its own little white circle they called plates.

"No, that's fine. I missed lunch, so I'm hungry." The first bite was hot and gooey and greasy and good. Seemed there was a reason Big Ed's was the pizza place of choice in town. Fortunately, the waitress dropped off his Amber Boch, so he could chase the food down to take another bite.

"Yeah, so, what was the bet?" Carol asked again after swallowing a mouthful of food. They were jammed around the table, and Sam's leg was flush along hers, so a big part of the heat in his gut wasn't just from the hot pizza.

"I thought Tony had exaggerated; Phil said he hadn't," Natasha shrugged. She moved with ease but Sam could see she was hyper vigilant, taking in their surroundings. Didn't escape his notice she had her back in the corner with a view of everything. "You know how Tony goes on about Sam and Dean."

"I could have told you Sam was good-looking," Carol laughed. "For once, Tony wasn't bullshitting." She winked at Sam. "And you've seen Dean, right? So you should have known."

"Actually, Clint's been very tight lipped about the other Winchester. I haven't seen a single picture." Natasha systematically demolished her slices as she spoke, bites followed by sips of her soda. "You do know," she looked directly at Sam, "if your brother hurts Clint in any way, he'll answer to me."

Sam stopped chewing to keep from choking and drank from his bottle to clear his throat. "Um, no, but I do now." The redhead was scary, and that said a lot considering he'd faced down Lilith and worse along the way. Yeah, Natasha could give them all a run for their money.

"Stop scaring the man." Carol patted Sam on the knee and it turned into a light caress. "I vouched for them."

"Excuse me, but you're sleeping with him, so that does make you biased," Natasha shot back in a sweet voice.

"I've seen Dean with Clint; they're good together. Hot. Might even distract you. Did I tell you about the pie Clint ordered in D.C.?" Carol wiggled her eyebrows, and Natasha's answering smile was real.

"Ladies." Phil's tone was conversational and non-threatening, but it brought both of the women up short.

"Right," Carol nodded, and just like that they were back to business. "Phil, you want to fill Sam in or shall I?"

Coulson ignored Natasha's little cough and half-hidden grin at that statement. "We think we can retrieve Clint and Dean from the past."

"How?" Sam jumped on that statement immediately.

"On September 12, 1983, there was an accident at Oak Ridge Labs involving an unstable radioisotope. The official incident reports all state that there was no disruption aside from a minor elevation of radiation levels, but eyewitness accounts are vastly different. Three people were seriously injured, one ended up in a mental hospital, and two simply disappeared," Phil said. He passed over his tablet which held a series of photos, what looked like old Polaroid instant pics. The first showed a laboratory room with half of a wall missing and a circular gouge in the floor, tables cut in half. Inside the blast radius of about a foot and a half, glass was shattered, heavy steel burners and instruments thrown wide. One picture showed two scientists in white coats bending over another man with scorch marks on his hands and arms, his face obscured by the bodies of the others. Sam paused on the next pic, increased the magnification – how quickly he'd become addicted to the features on the tablet – and he put it down on the table. Two men were standing in the corner of the lab, out of the way of the EMTs who were working on the wounded. One, Sam had only seen in a photo on Marie's … J.D.'s … desk at the precinct and hanging on the kitchen wall in Marie's house. He had the same eyes and chin as J.D., and Marie got his nose. Their father was wearing a ball cap, jeans and a plaid shirt as he turned his head to speak to the police detective.

"Bob Woods and Bill Oakes. If they were there, odds are Dean and Clint were too … and you think they're the two missing people?" Sam asked.

"Stephen Strange does. As he explained it, this specific lab is a nexus point, a place where time lines and ley lines come together; it's the same lab where much of the work on the atomic bomb was completed," Phil explained. "The accident weakened the temporal walls and allowed them to be pulled out of that time and into another."

"But when? They aren't here." Sam ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Carol's warm hand slipped onto his knee under the table.

"They aren't here yet," she said. "We need to recreate the accident, now, in the same location. Something about harmonic resonances between catalysts? I'm not sure what that means, but he said you had to be there, that Dean would key off of you."

"That I can believe." Sam had to grin at the thought of Dean finding him across time. His brother had come back from much worse places, why not time travel? "So, how we do know when to do this? And how? I imagine you've got a plan." That was something Sam had learned about Phil during the past months of talking to the man on the phone and sharing information - he was organized and always had twenty different options.

"That's what we're here for. Natasha can get us in and I can help replicate the energy signature of the isotope explosion." Carol squeezed his knee. "Piece of cake."

"When isn't important; Strange says where and who matter." Phil waved down the waitress for the check. "The exact same spot in the lab and you for Dean while Natasha exerts her pull on Clint."

"Natasha?" Sam had to ask.

"Seems she's a catalyst as well. Strange said it would be a good idea for her to be with us. Good, but very, very dangerous." Carol looked over at the redhead. "But that's pretty much par for the course for us."

"Tomorrow evening, about seven," Natasha supplied; she eyed Sam's muscles. "Assuming you can lift me?"

"I can do that." For the first time since Dean disappeared, Sam felt this was finally nearing its end.

**1983**

He watched Clint shuffle through the files again as if some new bit of information would magically materialize. Dean knew the feeling; they were dead in the water with no way to determine where the wraith had gone. A wraith that was a ghost or whatever that smoke was. God, not a smoke monster, that would be too _Lost_ for him. Honestly, until the thing killed again – if it did – they were at a dead end. Time to change their focus towards Morwen and her plans. Adding to the handwritten list, Dean wrote "check for spells to bring back banished gods" then wondered exactly where he thought they were going to check. Maybe it was time to start thinking about calling in the cavalry - Clint could contact SHIELD and Dean had at least three names of the people who first helped his Dad get started in the business. They'd be around and might be able to help. If he could track them down.

He was momentarily distracted by Clint crossing the room to the fridge to get another beer; the man hadn't bothered with more than just his jeans, and the acid wash pulled snug over his ass when he bent down. Great sex a short while ago didn't preclude Dean from admiring the view and getting stirred up by it. After all, he figured they pretty much had come as close to "the talk" as they ever were going to and it looked like Dean was going to keep getting some of that fine ass, so, hey, things worked out for the best. The real problem with that damn wraith/ghost/cloud/thing … he had to come up for a better name for it … had been after it was gone. He felt so damn good in those few moments it had them, Zen-like and happy, so when it was ripped out of him it was a good high suddenly turning bad. Like a piece of him was missing, he wandered around the rest of the day, occasionally feeling phantom arms around him or seeing fireworks out of the corner of his eye. He'd started to feel like that guy Cipher in the movie _The Matrix_, wanting to get reinserted so he didn't have to face the reality of his life. He didn't like it, didn't want to feel the loss, and didn't need anything or anyone to make him whole. Didn't need Clint or Sam or … yeah, he'd been kidding himself, but that's what he did the best, lied to himself. The whole 'let's kiss Clint just to prove I don't need it' idea didn't work out either. Sure, sex was the outcome, damn fine sex to boot, and Clint admitting he liked Dean (he was staying with the word 'like' for now. The other options were a little too daunting for him to contemplate), well, that was better than just good. But, if anything, the whole evening had shown maybe needing to be with someone – okay, Clint - wasn't all that terrible a thing to cop to.

"Toss me one of those," Dean asked, waiting until Clint stood back up. Clint narrowed his eyes at that, and Dean brazened it out with a grin. Grumbling, Clint bent over again, and this time Dean whistled. He got his beer, and an exasperated shake of his head to go with it as Clint passed it over.

"Sometimes you're 14-years-old," he said with a sigh.

"And you love it," Dean answered before he thought about it. Clint's eyes crinkled at the edges and then he raised his eyebrows. "I mean, you like it … because you're the same – a teenager sometimes."

"Smooth, Dean, real smooth," Clint laughed and Dean let out the breath he'd unconsciously held. Damn slip of the tongue. There was a bad joke there but before he could think of the exact words, a knock sounded at the door. With quick flicks of the eyes, they decided the plan; Clint grabbed Dean's polo because it was closest and stepped back into the bathroom. Dean opened the door.

He was someone Dean would have walked past and never given a second look; khaki pants, yellow button down with blue stripes, a grey Member's Only jacket, and a pair of big glasses. No more than 5' 8", at least in his late 30s, maybe early 50s, the man was nondescript with his brown hair and brown eyes.

"May I come in, Dean?" He asked, standing perfectly still, the only clue that he was more than he seemed.

"Depends. Who the hell are you?"

"Hyperion."


End file.
